Shards of Glass
by Tonight.At.Noon
Summary: Son of the President Bucky Barnes meets the gorgeous Darcy Lewis the night of an attack on the White House. He protects her as best as he can, taking her to one of the several bunkers at the house. When the smoke clears, they emerge and go their separate ways. But Bucky can't stop thinking about her. [AU]
1. Part One

**A/N:** A story told in four parts. Enjoy.

* * *

 **Part One | To the Emergency Exit Door**

* * *

 _You're a fool, James_.

His father's favourite words. Ever since he was a young boy, truly too foolish to know any better, his father made it his mission to let his only child know how much of a disappointment he was. He says them now, standing before James—nobody calls him James; his father really is so very clueless. _You're a fool, James_ , he says.

He holds up a magazine from Europe. A tabloid. Grainy, dimly lit photos decorate the front cover. The words "President Barnes' Son Having Wild, Wild Fun" are written in bold, gigantic, yellow type beneath a picture of somebody who could only be James. Naked, a bottle of expensive scotch in one hand, a model's breast in the other.

"Well, what do you have to say for yourself?" His father's face has grown red. James— _you're Bucky, no matter what the old fuck says_ —is more than used to this reaction. He hardly cowers in fear anymore. " _Well_?"

Bucky takes the magazine from his father. Behind the president, a man in a black suit stands rigid. Bucky sees his hand twitch. He raises an eyebrow at the secret serviceman. "Really? You think I'm gonna beat my dad to death with a rolled up magazine, Agent Smith?" he says, glancing at the cover one more time. It truly was a wild, wild night. There was a yacht, he thinks. Maybe it was a hotel room. Either way, the model hanging on his arm had been an amazing companion. "Look, Mr. President"—

—"How many times have I told you not to address me as such when we're in private?" his father spits.

Bucky wipes a spot of saliva from his cheek with the magazine. _Could_ he murder his father with this thing?

"We aren't in private, though. We're never in private," Bucky points out, staring down the agent behind his father. "And you interrupted me. Mr. President," he continues, watching his father's skin turn redder than the blood moon, "I'm an adult. I can do whatever I want. I don't have to protect your image anymore."

Wrong thing to say. His father's ears are steaming. His eyes are bulging, about to burst forth from their sockets.

" _An adult_!" the president booms. The Oval Office shakes. Bucky awaits his verbal punishment. "Surely you understand the repercussions of such a debauched lifestyle! You're almost thirty! I could deal with these situations a little more when you were younger, but I'd have thought you'd be a little more mature"—

Bucky cuts him off with a bewildered laugh. "I _am_ thirty. That's what I was doing in Europe. Celebrating my thirtieth birthday. Thanks for the card, Mr. President. Should have known your play thing of a secretary sent it to me."

Bucky sees it coming. His father lurches, hand raised. He braces for impact.

Someone in the room clears their throat loudly. Agent Smith, here to save the day. Bucky opens his eyes, not having realised he had closed them.

"Sir, the gala is going to be starting soon. We should get you to the celebration."

The president's colour magically goes from boiled tomato to bleached parchment in a split second. Smoothing his blinding, cerulean blue suit, he ignores Bucky and follows Agent Smith out of the room. Another agent, tall and dark and stone-faced, enters the room. His very own babysitter for the evening.

Gripping his own suit—black to match the other members of the Secret Service, a small act of rebellion as the invites called for any colour other than white and black—by the lapels, Bucky gathers the remnants of his sanity as best as he can before being led away from the Oval Office.

Last week was his birthday, today is his father's. Sixty years old. What a milestone. The man has been serving this country as its leader for nearly eight years. Despite being widely hated by about half of the population, he still manages to snag hundreds of celebrities and public figures for his birthday bashes. Bucky will never understand the hypocrisy of most people.

Usually, he does his best to stay away from these events. He hasn't lived in the White House since his father's first year in office. When he left, he had made an unspoken vow to never return. Of course, he has broken that vow several times. It's a difficult promise to keep when one's father is the President of the United States of America. Parties, Christmas celebrations, _Easter_ celebrations, inaugurations, funerals . . . they all require Bucky's presence.

The secret serviceman, a new guy by the looks of him, walks ahead of Bucky through the extravagant building until they reach two large doors. Inside, Bucky can hear a rising chatter blending with some Beethoven. He smiles at the agent, who stares at him blankly.

"Cheer up, old sport," Bucky says, nudging the taller man with a closed fist. He could be imagining it, but he thinks he sees the agent's lip pull up briefly in a snarl. "Life's too short to be so serious."

"Enjoy your dinner, Mr. Barnes," the agent says calmly, opening the double doors.

Bucky stands at the entrance to a grand ballroom. It is dressed to the nines in blues and golds, the colours of his father's alma mater. Typical of him to hold on to his school days. Even the president had managed to peak at eighteen. Scattered around the room, either at tables or standing in huddled groups, are hundreds of specially-selected guests invited so as to not cause any trouble. There are people from the right—his father's dearest friends and advisors—and people from the left known to have a fairly open mind about his father's decisions.

Circular tables surround the ballroom. Expensive, glittering chandeliers are poised to drop down on everyone. A band is at the far end of the room, plucking on strings, blowing air into long tubes. Several older people dance to the music on the small stretch of space in front of the musicians. It looks like any of his father's parties. There are smiles on faces, but he can see the dread and hatred in their glassy eyes. All of these old, rich bastards have been so angry for so long, they've just gotten really good at shoving their feelings down. Because that's what men do.

Unless you're a Barnes. Then you wear that hatred on your sleeve.

Once enough eyes are on him—several pairs slip to the fly of his slacks, proving that the European tabloids really do circulate Stateside nowadays—Bucky wanders through the doorway, knowing his bodyguard is not too far behind. He winks at several of the women sitting nearest the doors. They bow their heads and cover their wrinkled smiles with gloved hands.

"You are sitting up front, Mr. Barnes," his guard says, low, as they make their way through the bustling crowd.

Bucky nods, his eyes catching on a woman sitting by the band to the left of the room. She is young—no more than 25. Dressed in a long, black gown, her skin glows in the golden light of the room. Dark waves of her hair flood her shoulders and her red lips are pursed as her glimmering blue eyes survey the room. She looks bored. He stops walking, ignoring the agent behind him telling him to keep moving. He waves the man off and veers off course, heading right for the woman in black.

His shadow follows close—Bucky can almost feel his breath on the back of his neck—but he ignores the agent, as he always does when he's at these events, and snags a free chair at the empty table where the woman sits. She doesn't startle. Her eyes, which really are blue, like the Grecian oceans he is so fond of, slink in his direction, but she doesn't seem put off by his presence in the least. It is as if she was expecting him to come over to her. As if this chair was turned outward by her for the sole purpose of getting him to abandon his original path.

Or, perhaps she doesn't know who he is. Yes, that must be it.

"Are you lost, Mr. Barnes?"

Bucky's head cocks slightly to the right as her sultry, uninterested voice caresses his ears. His name pours out of her mouth like a magic spell. He is hypnotised for a moment as their eyes meet. He feels himself blinking like a fool, his jaw slack and his neck bent.

She knows who he is, then.

Behind him, he hears his babysitter cover a laugh with a small coughing fit. It is enough to jerk him out of his trance.

"I'm right where I need to be," he says, recovering quickly.

The woman doesn't smile. She doesn't bat her pretty eyes and laugh coyly. Her full mouth remains in a line.

Bucky is not shallow enough to think every woman must fall at his feet. Many do, of course. He has been on magazine covers and tabloid covers since his father's presidency began. Before that, in their home state of New York, he was known as Senator Barnes' son and he was constantly approached by women young and old trying to get their very special fifteen minutes. But he knows his acts of rebellion are not for everybody. He has been called various names by feminist organisations, even though, despite his womanising ways, he does identify as a feminist. He has been bashed by news anchors and Instagram commenters for what they call _Extreme Daddy Issues_ and _White Privilege Asshattery_.

But she did call him over here, of that he is certain. Why, then, is she acting as if he has horrendously invaded her personal space?

"Don't you need to be up there," she says. She points a silvery blue-tipped finger to where his father's table is at the front of the room.

Bucky looks over to a group of old, white men sit huddled in conversation. His father's advisors and closest friends. The Puppeteers, as Bucky likes to call them. They are the ones whispering in the President's ear, coercing him into signing all of those laws and bills and other various documents that tiptoe on infringing on the rights of the American people.

He hates all of them. Has done since he first met them. They are the devil's henchmen. Peel back their wrinkly, liver-spotted skin and you'll see only fire.

Returning his focus to the nameless woman beside him, Bucky grabs the glass of red wine at the place setting and takes a large sip. The sweet, dry alcohol burns his throat. He has always hated the taste of wine.

"I am right where I need to be," he says easily, turning up the left half of his mouth.

"Actually, Sir, I do need to get you up there," the agent pipes in his monotonous voice.

Bucky doesn't bother looking at the man. He keeps his focus on the woman in black. "I'm fine where I am, old sport. Run along."

"Oh, I think you should listen to the nice Serviceman, Mr. Barnes," she says, glancing to the side at his babysitter.

"And why is that?"

A slow, dangerous smile glides across her face. "You might regret your decision to stay."

He likes this game. "Is that a threat?"

"Does it sound like a threat?" She leans her elbow on the table and holds her chin against her knuckles. That smile glimmers. Sparse red sparkles from her lipstick blind him.

"I believe it was meant to be interpreted as a threat, yes." He holds her gaze, struggling against the desire to lure her away from the table. She wouldn't agree to it. Not yet, at least. He has to bide his time. "That begs the question, though. . .what, exactly, are you threatening?"

Seconds tick by with no answer from the woman. _The Woman_ —he feels like Sherlock Holmes. Finally he has met his match in female form. The obnoxious voices of the other people in the room invade Bucky's mind as he waits for her to speak. He is aware of the slither of fear steadily making itself a home in his gut. Her eyes have taken on a mischievous tint, the way his do when he is about to pounce on unsuspecting prey.

"You look frightened, Mr. Barnes," she observes coolly.

She sees right through him. This unnerves him even more. "I'm not frightened."

"Fantastic," she says, reaching inside her black, square purse that hangs on her chair.

She pulls out a recording device and a notepad. Flipping to a fresh page, she clicks a pen and presses a button on the device.

 _Shit_.

The bodyguard has stepped away from the table. If he is not there, he is not obligated to tell Bucky to shut the hell up. Clever bastard.

Bucky needs to find an escape, but The Woman is speaking before he can make a run for it.

"So, you wouldn't mind answering some questions, right, Mr. Barnes? My name is Darcy Lewis and I am with the online political journal _Women for Women_. Could you comment on your father's recently proposed bill that, should it pass—which won't be difficult with how many republicans have seats in our government at the moment—would work tirelessly to shut down the remaining abortion clinics in the United States?"

 _Fucking hell_.

Bucky's eyes slip closed. His head pulses and he pinches the bridge of his nose in an attempt to lessen the pain. _This is not happening_ , he tells himself. _The beautiful woman in front of you is not a journalist on the hunt for blood_. But she is, and there is no way out of this one.

He opens his eyes to find the recorder level with his mouth. Darcy Lewis's expression is expectant with a hint of _gotcha_. Single raised eyebrow, smirk, slight tilt of the head. She is good, he'll give her that.

"We're waiting, Mr. Barnes," she says, waving the device like a magic wand.

"Come on." He grins, though the movement is awkward and painful. "It's a party. Let your hair down. Relax. Let's not talk politics."

"This is a party being held at the White House to celebrate your father, the President of the United States of America," the reporter says, her smirk flatlining. She raises an eyebrow just as the doors to the room open. Claps abound. The President has arrived. "Is this not the perfect place to talk about politics?"

Bucky drops his uncomfortable grin.

His whole life, ever since his father started up his political career, Bucky has been told to keep his mouth shut whenever someone asks him a question about his father's policies. It's been easy so far. The folks he hangs around with are more interested in his bank account and body than his brain. They couldn't care less that his father is the reason they have to pay so much in taxes while the rich get massive breaks. The reason they struggle to make minimum wage at good jobs. The reason universities have racked up costs because the government is giving them less and less money to fund worth-while projects. Those people don't give a damn. Mostly because they are in the boat with the wealthy son of the President. Touching on those subjects would be a bad idea, or so they think.

The truth is, Bucky is against his father's policies. He has been since he was a child. It doesn't stem from his hatred of his father—it is part of the reason he hates his father in the first place. The man is a reverse Robin Hood. He steals from the poor and gives to the wealthy. As much as Bucky enjoys a party and a night with an actress or a model, he knows the cruelty of his father and despises the thought of Mr. President treating the United States the way he treats his son.

He can sense Darcy Lewis thinks either he will remain silent or speak out in support of the President. There is no other option in her book—the situation is black and white. Due to the way he is portrayed by the media plus the way he portrays himself to the media, he is not surprised. And this is dangerous. He could spill all of his secrets and his thoughts on this proposed bill. Prove Miss Lewis—he doesn't see a ring—and the world wrong about him. After all, he did graduate from UVA with a degree in economics and a minor in politics. Everyone seems to forget about that part because it came before his father's election.

Thirty years of his life have been spent being controlled by his father. Maybe now is the time to stand up for himself.

"You look like you're thinking real hard about something, Mr. Barnes," Darcy Lewis says, pulling him from his own head.

Bucky looks up from his clenched fists. He has made a decision.

"You want my thoughts on this bill?" he checks. Darcy Lewis nods, surprised. A tremor of excitement runs through him. That rebellious spark he has been searching for since he was a kid and he used to steal the good chocolate from the top of the pantry ignites within him. "Okay, then. We live"—

—"Sir, I would strongly advice against this. The President is seated. You should be at his table."

Bucky turns his head. His babysitter has moved closer. His cold eyes are like fiery steel. There is an evident threat in his advisement.

Bucky will not back down. Not tonight.

"Thanks for the suggestion, old sport," he says, twisting away and readying himself to fully answer Darcy Lewis's question. She looks expectantly at him as she holds the recorder a couple of inches from his mouth. "As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted"—

But before he can get another word out he is interrupted again. Only it is not the agent assigned to watch over him that cuts Bucky off. It is instead an earsplitting blast that comes from the front of the ballroom. He watches the chandelier above the table in front of him crash to the ground. Glass flies at him as a burning blow of air rushes over his body, sending him backwards. He shields his face with his arms and hits the floor, just managing to avoid smacking his head. Darcy Lewis flies on top of him. Instinctively, his body turns them over so she is beneath him. He drags them both under the circular table, his ears ringing.

Smoke stings his eyes. He shuts them as another boom shakes the table above them. He can hear bloodcurdling screams muffled against his deafened ears. They are the shrieks of dying people. Of people whose flesh is sizzling with burns. Whose lungs are filling with debris and fumes.

He has to open eyes. He has to. Counting down from five, Bucky braces himself and springs open his eyelids. Instantly they are bombarded with dust and smoke. Everything around him pulses as his heart beats erratically against his chest—it hurts it is pounding so hard. Blinking away the wetness forming at his lashes, he tries to shake away the sirens blaring in his ears. He has to focus.

Bucky glances down. The journalist coughs underneath him. Her face bunches in what he can only assume is pain. Black and grey shadows cover her face, but there are streaks where tears have broken through the grime. He assumes he looks something similar.

The ballroom has gone dark. Emergency protocols have shut off the lights, but there are no sprinklers. There should be sprinklers. Through the sheer white tablecloth he is blinded every other second by the fire alarm, and if he concentrates hard enough he can hear the bell trumpeting above the howling partygoers.

"We have to get out of here!" he says when he manages to find his voice. He can hardly hear himself. His laboured breaths fill his nose and throat with smoke. The scent is acrid and burns his tongue. Enough to make him want to shut his mouth for good.

Darcy Lewis must not have lost her hearing, or maybe she can read lips. Either way, she nods hurriedly and mouths, _how_.

As Bucky deconstructs the movements of her lips, as the ringing in his ears dies down, there is a new threat added to the mix. Gunshots. They splinter and crackle through the air. Screams erupt again, louder and more pained than before. It is not a single attack, then. It is a full blown ambush.

If he wants to get them out safely, he has to know where the bullets are coming from. Moving through his paralysis, he reaches out and grips the end of the tablecloth. He lifts it very slightly. There are two gunmen at the front of the room holding large guns. Black masks cover their faces, but there is righteous anger rolling off of them. Looking to his left, he sees the emergency exit that will lead him and Darcy to the nearest safe room.

Bucky drops the tablecloth and ducks over Darcy again. Pressing his mouth to her ear, he says, "They're over by the stage. I can get us to the closest bunker. It's just out the door to the left. They won't be able to get to us there."

"But how?" she says, the words muffled. "How will we get past them?"

He can only tell the truth. "I don't know. Either we escape or we don't," he says.

Darcy nods again, fear in her blue eyes. He mimics the jerk of her head and gives himself no time to think of the consequences before crouching and grabbing ahold of Darcy Lewis' arm. He slips out from under the table, the tablecloth acting as a smoke screen for a moment, dragging a staggering Darcy behind him. More gunshots ricochet around the room. He swears he can feel them zipping past his ears. His hands and knees fall on splintered glass, but he doesn't stop until he reaches the emergency exit. Reaching up, he claps the bar on the door. It swings open. Getting to his feet, he lifts Darcy to a standing position and, his hand still glued to her forearm, bursts out of the room.

Halfway down the blue-carpeted, narrow hall, a man looms with his own weapon strapped to his chest. His face is also covered by a mask which crumples when he spots Bucky and Darcy escaping the ballroom.

Bucky's heart is in his throat, but, being the son of the President, he has been trained for these horrific situations. With blood dancing on his tongue, coating his tastebuds in a metallic tang, he lets go of Darcy.

"Stay back!" he warns loudly, startling the burly, gunslinging man.

Bucky picks up his feet and charges at the intruder. He slams into him. The large butt of the gun strikes Bucky's chest, knocking the wind from his charred lungs. He ignores the pain and shoves the man against the wall, using a closed fist to strike at the man's jaw three times before he hears a crack that strikes his battered eardrums. The masked terrorist squawks. His knees buckle. Bucky takes a step back and allows him to drop to the ground. He bends, tearing the weapon free. He uses the sharp butt to club the side of the man's head.

He is out cold. Still holding the massive gun, Bucky twists his head to find Darcy staring at him, her hand covering her mouth, her eyes bulging.

"We have to keep moving," he says, his throat constricting every time he hears a scream from inside the ballroom.

Darcy shrugs off her apparent shock and races to him. "Lead the way," she says.


	2. Part Two

**Part Two | Give Me Some Morphine**

* * *

The bunker is cold. He hasn't been inside one of these things in almost ten years. When he lived at the White House there were mandatory drills in which he would be forced from his bed in the middle of the night by an agent and ushered into one of the many safe rooms on the property. He and his father would be locked in the room for hours until given the all clear. The grey, thick walls would feel like they were closing in, and he never wanted any of the food stocked on the shelves by the door. He would spend most of his time lying on the single bed playing a game of solitaire, leaving his father to read the historical non-fictions on the bookshelf.

Bucky hated the whole procedure. The night always ended with a screaming match and a new bruise. He is glad they occurred, though, now. Without them, he and Darcy Lewis would still be in the ballroom with bullets in their skulls.

He looks over at the journalist, his ears ringing uncomfortably. She is covered in soot and streaks of blood and tears. She leans her back against the door, her gaze planted on the solitary, flickering light at the centre of the low ceiling. They haven't spoken since they entered. The silence is buzzing around them, growing as loud as the explosions. Bucky can't handle it.

"There's a first aid kit in here," he says. Darcy's sharp intake of breath reaches his ears and he looks away from her, surveying the shelf by the bed and spotting the box labeled with a red plus sign. He takes it, walking the few steps to Darcy. Their bloodshot eyes meet. He notices a tremor running through her lips. She's scared. "I can fix up some of your wounds. Is there anything that needs attention right away?"

The mention of injuries has suddenly reminded Bucky that he is also in severe amounts of pain. His palms and knees, chest and neck are all throbbing. But when Darcy nods, he chooses to ignore his own ailments and focus on hers. It's instinctual for Bucky—he would do the same thing when his mom was alive.

"I've got a pretty bad gash on my leg from the chandelier," Darcy says, showing him a tear in her black dress. He gets to his knees, trying his best to stave off a wince, and pulls apart the flaps. Red streaks cover her ivory skin. He follows them upward to a long rip in her flesh.

He releases her dress and unlatches the box of supplies, pulling out a handful of antiseptic wipes, some antibacterial ointment, gauze, and medical tape.

"Do you trust me?" he asks, looking up at her through his dust-covered lashes. She moves her head up and down once and he gets to work. He tears open an antiseptic wipe, using it to clean the area around the cut.

"When I was twenty-one, I burned myself on an electric stovetop," he says, hoping to distract her. And himself. The bunker blocks out all noises from the outside. There could be nuclear bombs being dropped on the White House and they wouldn't know. Talking will help his thoughts from growing too wild. "The hob had just been switched off, but something was covering the light that would have told me it was still hot, and I really needed to put this plastic bag of bread on the stovetop for some reason. So, I did what I always do when I'm about to put plastic on the stove. I pressed the back of my left hand on the hob. I swear I could hear my flesh sizzling. God, that thing must have been five hundred degrees."

"I think I'm going to vomit just thinking about what that must have looked like," Darcy says.

Continuing to wipe the blood on her leg, Bucky says, "I almost did vomit. From the excruciating pain, not the sight of it. Though it did look disgusting. My skin instantly bubbled. I had to wait, of course, for the blisters to pop before I could put anything on my fingers to protect them. Two days I waited and of course I woke in the middle of the night, my fingers on fire and gross blister goop all over me."

"How long did it take to heal?" she asks, her breath catching on the last word as the antiseptic wipe touches the scrape. It's superficial, which is good. He would not trust himself to stitch her up.

"It was more than a month before the skin finally smoothed out."

"Do you still have scars?"

Bucky lifts his left hand and shows her his knuckles. His middle and ring finger have two long, wide strips of pink, hairless skin. He tells all sorts of stories to the girls who ask. Never once has he revealed the true way he got the scars. Out of embarrassment, mostly. Desperate times, he supposes, have brought the truth to the surface.

Darcy takes his hand and inspects the healed burns closely. Her thumb moves over his skin and he pauses his movements against her leg. "That was really stupid of you to touch the stove," she says, dropping his hand. He snatches it away.

"Yep. But I still do it," he says. He continues with the task at hand.

"Why?"

"Well, I like to live dangerously."

Darcy scoffs. Good to know she feels comfortable enough to make fun of him even after they endured such a horrific event. Although he assumes she is doing exactly what he is: distracting herself. Otherwise they would both be melting on the floor, crying out for help.

"It sounds to me like you just never learn from your mistakes," she says.

"Maybe that's true. But I prefer to think it's the other thing. It sounds cooler."

It takes him another minute to patch up the gash on Darcy's leg. He presses the gauze pads to the wound and winds the medical tape around her thigh. When he is finished and asks if she can point out any other lacerations, she shakes her head.

"What about you?" she asks, giving him a once over.

Standing, Bucky says, "What about me?"

Her hand waves up and down frustratedly. "Are you hurt anywhere?"

Yes. All over. Splinters of glass pierce what feels like every inch of his skin. There are probably two or three of those pieces travelling through his bloodstream on their way to his heart. His hand aches and pulses, a side effect of punching a masked assailant in the jaw hard enough to break it. Remnants from the explosions swirl in his eyes and it feels like something is stabbing them every time he blinks.

The bits of his father in him . . . they act like blood poisoning and one day they will kill him. If he doesn't die in this bunker.

Those parts of him want to tell Darcy Lewis there is nothing wrong. He is swell, in fact. The President always told him to shove his emotions down. When he was in pain as a child, he would tell Bucky's mom off for what Mr. President considered "doting" on him and he learned fairly quick to hide it when he got injured.

Now was not the time to allow his father's influence to control him.

"Give me your hand," Darcy Lewis orders, and he is so startled by her command that he instantly thrusts out his arm. She laughs delicately, like she is trying to hold back. "Your other one, dumbass. The one you used to knock out that guy threatening us with a gun."

"Right," he says through his own small laugh, retracting his left arm and offering his right instead, his eyes flickering to the bed where the heavy weapon rests.

Darcy takes it with unexpected softness and brings it up to her face. She frowns. "It's already swelling. Are there any ice packs in here?" She looks around the cramped room.

"No such luck. This thing is supposed to be able to support two people for a few years, but there's no freezer or refrigerator."

The frown deepens, creating a _V_ above her nose. She continues inspecting his hand and he finds he likes her touch.

Her skin is rough. She has the calloused fingers of a journalist who spends all their time writing, but there is a softness to her, which is startling to him. From the way she introduced herself to him at the table he assumed there would be no room for kindness. Not that there isn't still an air of animosity between them-he is the son of one of the most hated presidents in the history of the United States after all, and she works for a feminist political journal he can only imagine is against everything his father has ever said and done-but she seems to have put that aside for just this moment, and he oddly feels safe despite the glaring danger lurking outside of the bunker.

Releasing his hand, she bends at the waist and rummages through the first aid kit. Her fingers pull up a couple more antiseptic wipes and a bandage for the one knuckle that split open.

"The real question is," she says, reaching for his wounded hand again. They lock eyes for a second, but she quickly returns her focus to his injury. Bucky's pulse rattles and he shifts his shoulders, trying to shake off the strange jittery feeling inside of him. "Do you trust _me_?"

The light above them flickers a few more times. The walls of the bunker rumble. Bucky can only assume that means there are more bombs going off. More rubble and dust. More dead bodies.

Swallowing down the dry, painful mass in his throat, he says, honestly, maybe stupidly, "Yes."

Darcy is careful as she patches him up. She even pulls out a pair of tweezers from the box and starts removing the stray bits of glass in his hands free. She does this silently, consumed by the task she has undertaken. Bucky watches her face contort in concentration, finding that the many changes of her facial expressions makes up for her earlier ambush of him. And he can't be angry with her for that anyway. There is too much going on for even him to be that petty and pathetic.

Blood soaked gauze fill the bin by the door when Darcy finishes bandaging him up. His hands both sting painfully, but every time his reluctant companion breathes he watches her nose crinkle in discomfort and he resists the temptation to complain about his own injuries. Bucky has given her the bed. He moved the gun to the small desk near the door and sat on the uncomfortable metal chair, allowing her to sit on the lumpy mattress. She thanked him for sacrificing his own comfort. The pair have now sat in silence for what feels like hours.

Bucky swears he can hear screams from above, swears there is a breeze whipping by his cheeks as gunshots narrowly miss him. He wants to collapse in a heap on the floor. He wants to sob into the concrete until he is too tired to keep his eyes open. But there are too many thoughts filtering through his head to allow for such reprieve.

"Why were you so willing to give me a quote earlier?"

Shifting in the chair, Bucky catches Darcy's eye. She is propped up, her head against the wall. Her voice is weak. She must have cracked ribs. Maybe a concussion. Her blue eyes seem to have glazed over.

"You can tell me," she says after he doesn't respond. "It'll be off the record. I don't even think the record exists anymore."

"Why do you want to know?" he says eventually, his arm thrown over the back of his chair. His ribs must be cracked too. Each time his lungs expand there is a distinct crunch followed by a blinding shot of pain.

Darcy shrugs, her eyes swerving before meeting his again. "You've always kept your mouth shut. We like to call you the Silent Son."

"We?"

"Journalists," she expands. Her lip pulls to the right. "Though I like to call you the Slutty Son."

"Clever," he applauds.

"Isn't it just." Darcy's mouth falls flat. "Really, though, you've never shown a willingness to talk about your father and the things he does and says. Why the sudden change tonight?"

Is it even still _tonight_? Surely, it must be morning.

Bucky shifts in the hopes a new position will extinguish some of the agony he feels, but he accepts fairly quick as he now completely faces Darcy, his legs over the side of the chair, that there is no hope for any pause in his discomfort.

Searching for an answer to Darcy's question is not difficult. "My father's a bad man and I'm sick of people thinking I support him."

"Why now, though?" Darcy asks, lifting her head away from the wall. There is a distinct inquisitiveness to her voice. She is in journalist mode. "What sparked the shift?"

Bucky thinks back to earlier in the day—but it can't have just been that evening; it must have been ages ago, years ago—when his father was shoving the tabloid in his face. When he couldn't remember Bucky's age. When he said those words Bucky loathes almost as much as he loathes his father. _You're a fool, James_.

When the back of his father's hand glared at him threateningly, his polished class ring glinting.

"He still treats me like I'm twelve," Bucky says quietly, staring fixedly at his busted fingernails. "Like I don't know anything. Like I can't stand up for myself." The solitary light in the bunker hums, filling the wretched silence that chokes Bucky. He deserts his fingernails and looks defiantly at Darcy Lewis, whose glossy eyes are staring at him earnestly. "I hate him. I'm done pretending I don't."

"Oh, boo hoo," Darcy winces. She tries to sit up straighter, but gives up quickly and settles back against the wall, huffing shallowly. "Did daddy not love you enough? Are his policies and the laws he puts in place that significantly strip away women's rights to their own bodies, that horribly affect the working class and minority groups in this country damaging your reputation with your friends?"

Bucky holds back the memories scratching, clawing at his mind. The ones that involve his father's red, puffy face and the sharp sting of whiskey. The ones that end with Bucky sprawled on the floor, whimpering, his father standing above him, a cruel laugh tearing through the air. They beg for Bucky to remember. They want him to fall into their trap. But he won't let them. Last time he allowed them to win, the last time he found himself consumed by their power, he laid on his bed for half a week, shivering with unresolved fury and fear.

He gives Darcy a weak smile that slips off his face almost instantly. If only she knew. Maybe even if she did know. She does seem to despise him a great deal, even down in the bunker where they sit with bruised skin and souls. Maybe knowing wouldn't change anything for her.

"Look," he says, bottling those memories away before they grow too powerful, "you asked a question and I answered. And we're stuck underground with terrorists up there"—he points at the ceiling, inhaling an abrupt breath when his ribs slip—"trying to blow up the White House, so if you could stop treating me like I'm personally responsible for all of the shit happening in this country, I'd really appreciate it."

Dizziness sweeps over him as his burst of energy sputters and dies. His brain pounds against his skull and he closes his eyes as a wash of white masks his vision. The longer they have been down here the worse their injuries have gotten. Adrenaline from the initial attack is wearing off.

He wants to be sick. He can feel bile crawling up his throat. The bitter-tasting stuff burns his tongue, but he gulps down the aching in his gut. He just wants this whole catastrophe to end. Better than that, he wants it to have never happened in the first place. With all of the servicemen and watchdogs out on patrol, Bucky can't believe it did.

"I'm sorry," comes a small voice. It cracks through the pounding in Bucky's ears. He sluggishly opens his eyes. Darcy Lewis comes into focus bit by bit. Several more wet streaks break the grime on her face.

Guilt hurries through him, going off like the explosions. He sits up a little straighter. "No, don't," he says, struggling to catch his breath. "I shouldn't have snapped."

Darcy's lips, which have lost most of their red colour and now look more ashy than anything, vibrate as she speaks, "I shouldn't have said what I did. It's easy to put you and your father together, especially because you two look so alike, but it isn't fair. On you. I can only imagine what it must have been like to grow up with that man as my dad."

"Don't imagine too hard," he says sharply. "Even as a fantasy, you'll find yourself with severe anger management issues before too long."

She manages to laugh at his dark joke, though it is short and she breaks it off with a grimace. Following a moment filled solely with the sounds of their shared laboured breathing, Darcy says, "I'm scared. I think that's why I'm acting extra hostile."

"Why are you scared?" He shouldn't have asked. He knows why she is scared. It's the same reason he is scared. Probably the same reason the entirety of the United States is scared, provided they haven't all been blown to smithereens. But he's a curious creature. Still, he adds, "Aside from the obvious."

She doesn't have to answer him. Seconds flit by and he thinks she _won't_. But her voice, still quiet, though he is listening more intently, breaks through the tense atmosphere. "You saw what happened in New York," she says, and Bucky's mind is filled with images of alien centipedes and bloodied bodies lying in heaps of rubble on the streets of New York. "It's not just people anymore. It's things falling from the fucking sky. Unexplainable things. If this is another one of those attacks, then how the hell are we supposed to make it out alive?"

He hasn't let himself think about that, but Darcy's words fill him with new and improved dread. If it turns out the attackers are enhanced, if they turn out to be fully fledged aliens, then this bunker is useless. He and Darcy Lewis will die locked in this shabby, shitty room, their hope for survival having evaporated.

New York City has never been able to recover from that attack. Hundreds upon thousands of people had to bury empty caskets, either because their loved one was never located or because their body had been disintegrated.

Darcy is shivering on the bed. He watches her body convulse every few seconds, entranced and lost in his own head.

"We're going to be okay," he says.

"You can't know that."

The more she talks, the more she reminds him of himself. If they don't end up imploding by the end of this, if she is able to look past his parentage and philandering ways, he hopes she will accept an offer of friendship. He can't see why she wouldn't. They will have survived this together—that has to count for _something_. But maybe it won't matter. When all is said and done, he is hardly a trustworthy companion. And she wouldn't have time for his bullshit.

"Yeah, but pretending we might make it out of this alive has got to be better than convincing ourselves we're going to die."

Another shudder rattles Darcy. "Okay, I'll bite. How are we meant to distract ourselves? I don't know about you, but I don't really feel like talking."

He has made a decision. For the remainder of their time in this bunker, whether or not is the only time on this fucked-up earth they have left, he will throw aside his past. He will pretend to be the gallant gentleman. He will stamp out his own tremendous anxieties and attempt to create a calm atmosphere. Nobody wants to die in fear, and if he and Darcy Lewis are to be killed, he will make sure it is with some semblance of contentment.

With a great pang of agony, Bucky gets to his feet. Having been sitting for so long, he worries his legs will not work anymore, but he manages to take jittery, creaking steps towards the shelving unit by the bed.

"What are you doing?" Darcy asks, horrified. "You shouldn't be moving around." Grabbing a small box on the top shelf, Bucky tosses it onto the mattress. Darcy reaches for it. He hears her piercing intake of breath. She opens the box and stares inside. "Cards?"

Shuffling forward a few paces, Bucky takes a seat at the end of the bed, a fresh haze rippling through his mind as his ribs protest the new position. He takes the box from Darcy and removes a deck of cards. His favourite set. There is nothing special about them, but they were a gift from his mother when he was five. He brought them into this bunker during the second drill and would pass the time—when not engaged in an argument with his father—playing solitaire.

Letting the cards fall into his hand, he breathes in their old scent and rubs their frayed edges. An instant ease settles in his heart.

If they get out of here, he is taking the deck with him.

"Go Fish," he says to Darcy, dealing her cards. He has to take his time counting, but eventually they are ready to go.

Darcy stares at him like he's gone mad. "A child's game?"

"You wanted a distraction," he says. "So, here is your distraction."

She accepts his offer. Picking up her hand, Darcy eyes him over the tops of the cards. Their misty gazes meet, and it could be the insanity of the evening, but he thinks he spots the delicate trace of a smile in the storm of her eyes.

 **. . .**

A booming rapping on the bunker door yanks Bucky from his nightmare. He sits up, dragging somebody with him, and instantly regrets the jolted movement. Searing pain runs through him, pulling a yelp from his mouth.

"Mr. Barnes!" says a voice on the other side.

The spots blinking in his eyes fade with every distressed breath. He holds Darcy to his chest. She clutches him, her fingers digging into his flesh where his shirt ripped from the blasts. Bucky looks down at her. Panic greets him. It swims in her eyes.

"It's okay," he breathes, flinching. He tastes blood. "We'll be okay."

"Mr. Barnes, it's okay. We're here to rescue you," the voice calls through the door. "Maybe I should clarify. 'We' are the Avengers."

Bucky, unsure if this is a dream, or if he is dead, carefully slides his feet to the ground and begins to stand.

"No," croaks Darcy, clinging to him still.

"It's okay," he repeats, holding her wrists. A moment passes and Darcy, relenting, detaches her claws. With great effort, Bucky rises to his feet. His head is rushed with blood and he doesn't know how, but in a matter of seconds he is standing at the door, his face pressed to the cool metal. "Who are you?" he asks, attempting to make himself sound menacing. But his throat is dry and his body is exhausted and he only sounds pathetic and weak.

"I'm Iron Man."

Bucky twists to look at Darcy. Her face is melted in fear, but she nods. Brave until the end.

It's difficult, but eventually Bucky gets the door to unlock. Tony Stark's obnoxious face greets him as the gate swings open.

"Good to see you made it, Mr. Barnes," Iron Man says. His eyes flit behind Bucky's shoulder. Eyebrows raised, he adds, "And who is this? One last romp before the world ends?"

Ignoring the remark, Bucky stumbles away from the door and reaches out for Darcy. She holds his deck of cards in one hand, but she takes his proffered appendage with her other and gets shakily to her feet.

No more words are spoken as Stark guides them towards the medical tent set up outside the destroyed White House. Bodies, each covered in a sheet, are scattered about the grounds. Bucky keeps his head up and his focus on the feel of Darcy's hand in his own. Their palms are both sodden with sweat and he almost loses her a couple of times, but he just readjusts his grip and doesn't let go until they are forced into separate ambulances.

He asks to go with her—demands it, really. But the medical professionals take him without saying a word and sit him inside the back of the truck. He isn't apart from Darcy for long, though. She is pulled to the ambulance opposite him. He stares at her as the doctors begin their examination of his injuries.

The inspection is lengthy, but they have patched him up and given him a laundry list of all of his ailments by the time there are specks of light intruding on the night sky. The doctors step away from him at last, preparing for a trip to the hospital, and he is finally able to see Darcy again. She is watching him too, her arm hooked up to an IV.

"We're ready to take you now, Mr. Barnes," says one of the paramedics, his young face stretched with a tepid smile.

"Thank you," Bucky acknowledges, staring after Darcy.

The paramedic continues smiling at him, climbs inside, and shuts the doors, and Darcy Lewis' face vanishes from sight.

He remembers spotting her in the ballroom not even twelve hours ago. Looking at her then he saw only a conquest. Another notch on his belt. But everything has changed. He wants desperately to go to her, to find again that comfort she afforded him in the bunker when they tired of playing cards and were too exhausted to do anything other than sleep.

Once the morning officially comes, everything will change again. He knows it. They will go back to their lives and, in an effort to protect themselves, pretend their time hiding from masked terrorists never happened.

But he doesn't want to pretend.

Hell, he'll probably be singing a different tune once he is healed. Darcy Lewis will become just another face in the crowd of women he has entertained throughout his adult life.

 _You're lying_ , cackles a voice in his head.

The ambulance starts up. Bucky hears the sirens blare. Morphine burns through his veins and he lies back, his eyelids flickering. Closing his eyes, he slips into a heavy, dreamless sleep.


	3. Part Three

**A/N:** The style's a little different here to reflect on Bucky's internal struggles.

Enjoy.

* * *

 **Part Three | Just Don't Ask Why, I Want You**

* * *

 _"She's pretty. I've always liked the pretty ones."_

 _Bucky's eyes split open as that familiar menacing voice breaks through the quiet. The light in the room, coming from a single, low-hanging bulb above him, burns his retinas. His surroundings come slowly into focus as his eyes adjust. A basement. Concrete walls on all sides, a wet, musky feel in the air. She is before him, tied to a wooden chair. Gagged with a bandana. He watches her nostrils flare. He watches her blue eyes fill with tears. There are red, oozing slices on the exposed portions of her face._

 _Standing above her, directly behind her, President James Bartholomew Barnes smiles like a greedy jungle cat who has just come across a second dinner. His teeth shine with saliva. He touches a clawed hand to Darcy Lewis' shoulder, laughing softly when she struggles against his hold._

 _Bucky jerks, readying himself to pounce on his father, but he finds he can't move. His arms are tied behind his own chair. His legs, too, are bound. He rattles against his chains, willing them to burst, to grant him freedom so he can save the girl who is staring at him with fear etched in to every one of her pores._

 _"Let me GO!" he roars._

 _The President pretends to be shocked at Bucky's outburst. He startles dramatically, his black eyes wide. "Someone's found his bite," taunts his father, tugging on Darcy's hair. She yelps. The sound is muffled against her gag. Her head goes back, revealing the creamy softness of her neck._

 _Against her skin, Bucky watches her pulse move. It quickens when the President drags a long-tipped finger across her trachea. Red dribbles of blood seep from the slit he makes, instantly coating her neck in a ruddy sheen. Darcy whimpers beneath the President's touch. The sound is pained and frightened, and Bucky wants nothing more than to transform into one of the Avengers and be powerful enough to break through the chainlinks holding him to the chair. He tries, soundlessly bearing all of his weight, all of his seemingly menial strength, against the restraints, but nothing budges. He is well and truly trapped._

 _The President laughs softly. Bringing his ruby-painted finger to his mouth, he slips it between his lips and sucks hard. A satisfied grin, maniacal and crazed, spreads across his face. A vampire who has just had his first taste of blood. Now there is no telling what he will do to gain access to more of his newfound drug._

 _He releases Darcy's hair. He swipes some more of the liquid now moving down to Darcy's chest. It is then Bucky notices she is wearing the same outfit she wore to his father's birthday bash. There are more rips in it now, especially at her chest._

 _Bucky's hands crumple into fists. With their eyes level, he tries to get her to look at him as the President continues taking more samples from the fountain of blood at her throat. She winces every time he touches her, but eventually she sneaks a glance at him. Her blue eyes are a mixture of terror and sleepiness. Blood loss and being trapped in a room with a monster. He holds her gaze and mouths_ I will get you out of here.

 _"No you won't," the President says softly, a hint of humour in his tone. "You will sit there, and she will die, and you will be forced to watch."_

 _Bucky's eyes shoot up to the vampire. "Why are you doing this?" he asks._

 _"Why not?" he says casually. "If it will greatly upset you, what more reason do I need?"_

 _"But she . . . We don't know each other," Bucky insists, though he feels it is a lie. He feels he knows Darcy Lewis better than anyone in the world. "We met once."_

 _"Perhaps," the President muses. "But you held each other as you thought the world was ending, as you thought you would perish, and that has bound you to her in ways even I don't fully understand." He says this as if he understands most other things._

 _Bucky ignores the vampire's ridiculous statement. "What are you going to do to her?" he says, knowing how frightened he must sound and how much the President must love it._

 _Stretching out his clawed fingers, he strokes Darcy's hair. He grabs her chin and draws her head back once more, but he looks directly at Bucky. "Come now, child," he scolds. "Surely you don't need me to say it."_

 _And with that, his two devil hands cupping Darcy's head, he snaps her neck. A great crack echoes around the room._

 _The glowing white of her flesh goes instantly grey. Her vibrating body goes still. The President, the beast, the vampire, the devil, releases her head and laughs as it slumps forward with a clang against her sternum._

 _Bucky screams. He pulls at his restraints, blackness coating his eyes, his father's grinning phantom mocking him in the dark_.

Suddenly he is free. Thrashing around, Bucky finds his chains have turned soft. Confused, he looks down. He is not in a chair in a windowless room. His father is not there. Neither is Darcy and her poor, broken neck.

He is in his bed in a hotel in Washington DC. Darcy is alive and well. His father is dead, and today, two weeks following the attack on the White House, is his funeral.

The large room is dark, but soft, blue light juts through the thin, grey blinds, giving his surroundings a grey-blue hue. He shivers, cold sweat dripping down his back as he sits up, his nightmare fuzzily replaying in his mind. He has not been sleeping, but when he manages to fall into a slumber, it is brief and restless. And often filled with the most disgusting dreams. He thought when they told him the President had perished, had been dragged on stage and executed by the masked gunmen, that he would finally be free of the monster. But now his father is dead, and his ghost is having fun visiting him from hell.

Since it happened, people have been treating him like he is seconds away from breaking. From either going on a rampage himself, probably fuelled by alcohol, or from collapsing in a heap and crying until he vomits up his lungs. This scenario is also supposedly alcohol-driven.

And he gets it. He does. He has been a loose screw in the eyes of the US for quite some time now. He was witness to the deadliest attack on the White House in human history. His father is dead and gone. His scars have yet to begin healing. Of course the world is waiting for him to show up to the funeral naked and cradling a bottle of Jack. The tabloids would love it.

At first, he was sure something similar would occur. So really, he can't blame them.

Only they are all so wrong. He has not touched a bottle in two weeks. Has not ventured into the nightlife of DC looking for a woman, any woman, to take all of his troubles away for an evening. He has stayed in this hotel room guarded by remaining servicemen and buried himself beneath the covers like a child. The thought of losing himself, of soaking his lingering pain in alcohol, is not appealing to him the way it was when he was a young adult. He is on to the grown-up way of dealing with issues: hiding; closing his eyes and pretending they don't exist.

Only, closing his eyes makes him feel as though he is back in the underground chamber, and soon enough he has to open them again.

News outlets and news channels have requested interviews with him. Some have offered a considerable amount of money for exclusives. Nobody has been able to tempt him, though. No amount of promised money or luxury vacations or unlimited supplies of his favourite brand of vodka will be enough. He will never be ready to talk about that night. Brave journalists, stupid journalists, have attempted to break into the hotel, but Bucky hears rumours the Avengers are keeping watch over him.

Each time he turns on the television, a big thing taking up a quarter of the wall opposite his bed, he is forced to watch survivors recount their experience. They are on every station, every channel, every segment. They talk about the explosions. The heat. How their friends and family members were shot or blown to pieces that catapulted through the air and landed in people's hair. They say how lucky they are to be alive.

And they all take him back to the hours he spent with Darcy Lewis in the bunker, fearing they would be discovered and murdered by faceless men. So, naturally, he must close his eyes, and the cycle continues.

Darcy. He hasn't seen her or heard from her since they lost sight of each other after they were rescued by a reluctant Tony Stark. But she isn't on the television. And that is some comfort to him.

She is often in his dreams. His nightmares. She always dies whenever she appears. In one way or another, whether by masked gunman or glass from the chandelier, or Bucky's own hand, or his father's, she always dies, and she is always looking at him as she breathes her last breath.

Sitting against the headboard, Bucky plants his face in his hands and runs his fingers through his hair. He checks the time. Quarter past seven. He has only forty-five minutes until someone is knocking on his door, telling him he needs to go out the back way so they can get to the funeral. The funeral for his dead father, the ex-President of the United States. Bucky does not want to go. He would rather watch the procession on his too-big TV from this comfortable too-big bed. But he is done having the newspapers and news anchors talk about how selfish he is and how silly he is. Not going to his own father's funeral would definitely give them fuel for those stories, even if none of them know the true reason behind his desperate desire to stay away.

Figuring there is no point delaying the inevitable, Bucky stumbles sleepily out of bed. He gets in the too-big shower that could easily fit himself and all of the Victoria's Secret Angels. The first time he saw it, the afternoon he was released from the hospital, he thought briefly about inviting all of them over. But then he closed his eyes, and the memories starting playing back, and he threw up in the toilet instead.

He keeps the water cold, washing himself thoroughly as if lemongrass-scented soap will get rid of the stench of the nightmare. He stays under the needle spray for a long time. By the time he gets out, his lips are tinged blue and he has only ten minutes remaining before a knock on his door. Dressing in the black suit delivered to his room the previous night, he towel-dries his hair and forces it into place with a small dollop of whatever hair product was also delivered. Clearly the men guarding his door have not enjoyed seeing him look so unkempt.

The full length mirror in the bathroom reveals a tired man with purple-shaded circles beneath his eyes and fresh wrinkles on his forehead. How did he get so old? Surely, yesterday he was only fifteen, experimenting with exercise and girls and rebelling for the first time. If he had known then what would come of his adult life, he would have stayed young. He never would have allowed himself to go beyond sixteen.

Bucky is tossing an apple core in the bin when that knock echoes around the room. He washes his hands and goes through the too-big kitchen to the door.

"James Barnes?"

Bucky halts, confused. Captain America's smiling face greets him as he opens the door. His sandy-coloured hair is smoothed up and out of his charming eyes. The iceman doesn't look a day over thirty.

He isn't in his Captain America uniform. He wears a suit that matches Bucky's in shade. A second glance at that smile reveals to Bucky a hint of pity.

"Bucky," he says automatically, when Captain America's question regarding his name finally filters through. "It's just Bucky. Where's—"

"It was decided that I would be escorting you to the funeral, Mr. Barnes. For safety," Captain America cuts in before Bucky can finish his sentence.

"Please," he says, processing the information, "call me Bucky."

"Okay, Bucky," the Avenger says, holding out his large hand. "Steve."

Bucky and _Steve_ shake hands before _Steve_ guides Bucky from his room. He gets a whole Avenger as his personal bodyguard for the day. Have there been threats Bucky has not been made aware of? Threats on his life? On the funeral itself?

Probably. Even in death his father manages to bring out the worst in people.

The hallway is deserted as he and Steve make their way to the employee elevator. Bucky stares at the various yellow and orange and red paintings on the wall. The fiery colours blind him, but he continues staring at them until they disappear behind the grand scarlet and gold woven doors of the elevator.

Bucky leans back against the plush wall, keeping his breathing level while Steve the Avenger busies himself punching the last button on the panel. The elevator shakes on its way down. Bucky watches the numbers at the top change from big to small.

Steve Rogers joins him on the wall. The pair stare straight ahead.

"Your father was a good man," Steve says.

Bucky continues watching the numbers. "He wasn't," he says. No point in lying anymore.

Shuffling awkwardly beside him, Steve clears his throat. "Right. Of course. I suppose you would know better than anyone."

Of course. Right. "I suppose," Bucky says.

There is silence save for the music. _Ave Maria_. A wonderful song cheapened by its existence in the fancy hotel's elevator speakers.

He can feel Captain America's eyes on him.

"107," Steve says. Bucky slides his gaze from the numbers to Steve Roger's dazzling blue eyes. He bets they look extra blue when he wears his superhero getup. Steve glances down at Bucky's cufflinks. "I helped the 107th in World War Two."

"My grandfather," Bucky says. His grandfather, his namesake. "He was in the 107th. You rescued him."

Captain America looks to be concentrating. Then he snaps his fingers. His eyes go bright. " _Bucky_. I remember him. Buchanan "Call Me Bucky" Barnes." Steve laughs, probably calling to mind a memory long hidden between battle calls and alien invasions. "He was a fighter, your grandfather. He helped me get the other POWs out ."

Bucky often wonders how a man such as his grandfather managed to sire the horrible creature that became Bucky's father. Buchanan Barnes was a war hero who told him stories of Captain America. Who tucked him at night and sang him lullabies. He rivalled his Romanian grandfather, a difficult feat indeed.

He always told Bucky's father to treat the boy better. To treat the wife better. The dog. The furniture.

Bucky misses him. Today, he wears these cufflinks to remember him. He was more of a father to Bucky than James Bartholomew Barnes ever was.

"He talked about that a lot," Bucky says. "He would sit on the edge of my bed and tell me all about how Captain America saved his life so he could become a dad, and then become a granddad to me. He's actually on the lot where we're burying my dad. You can say hi to him."

When the doors to the elevator open, Bucky is actually smiling. All thanks to Steve Rogers and his wartime tales of Grandad Bucky's antics.

But then they leave the hotel the back way and there are still cameras flashing and reporters sticking microphones in his face, all of them asking the same questions: _Mr. Barnes, how does it feel to have two dead parents? Mr Barnes, why haven't you released an official statement regarding the White House attack? Mr. Barnes, do you feel guilty for not having saved more people during the attack on the White House? Mr. Barnes, who are you wearing?_

Steve works to get them all out of Bucky's way. The orphaned thirty-year-old pushes through the crowd and into the back of the black Acura driven by his regular babysitter. He nods to the man in the rearview mirror.

"How's it hangin', old sport?" he asks. He gets no response.

Seconds after he is safely inside the vehicle, Steve Rogers climbs through the door and buckles himself in next to Bucky. "Sorry about that. Someone must have tipped them off," he says.

No. They just knew. Everyone always goes out the back.

The journey to the cemetery is lively with conversation. Bucky is good at pretending, and while he talks to Steve about their shared love of baseball (go Dodgers), he pretends to be involved in the conversation. Really, he is thinking about what that one reporter said. What they accused him of.

Mr. Barnes, do you feel guilty for not having saved more people during the attack on the White House.

Yes. And no.

Yes, because of course. Because so many people died. So many people much better than his father. And there were bunkers all over the place, and if only, if only he could have gotten them all into them.

But no. Because there were too many gunmen. Too many explosions. How the hell was he supposed to get anyone else to safety aside from himself and Darcy Lewis? He would have died along with the rest of them if he had done that. Darcy would have too.

Yes, though. Because it's easier to feel guilty than not.

"I haven't gone to a game since I came out of the ice," Steve is saying when Bucky forces himself back into the conversation.

"Why not?"

"I get recognised too quickly."

"Of course, of course."

"What about you? Do you go to games often?"

"I used to."

"Would you get recognised?"

"Oh, yeah. Big time."

"But you kept going?" Steve does not like the limelight. He likes the saving people, but he hates the praise, the attention, that follow.

Bucky almost smiles at the answer he is about to give. "I loved getting recognised."

It's raining in DC as the car pulls up to the cemetery. Steve hands him a black umbrella and exits the car first, telling him to stay seated until he's given the thumbs up. Out the open door, Bucky sees a horde of camera flashes from over the cemetery wall. Several hundred, several thousands of spectators wait behind that wall. All of them want to give his father their best on his journey to Hades.

Steve does his sweep of the area and shoots a thumbs up. Bucky gets out of the car. He joins Captain America on the gravel path, pushing out his umbrella. The rain clips the fabric. Mourners nod their heads at him as they make their way inside the chapel. The new President of the United States of America, flanked on all sides by men with wires curling out of their ears, smiles sorrowfully at Bucky as he passes. Bucky stares after him, thankful it was him who survived and not his father's VP.

Guilt bites him for that thought.

The chapel is cold despite the humidity outdoors. He is brought up to the front of the domed room, where he was meant to be the night of the attack. He sits, ignoring the sobs in the room, and stares at the table where, in a few moments, his father's dead body will be displayed. Steve comes to sit beside him. He says he got caught up in a conversation with an enthusiastic old man who showed him a vintage Captain America postcard.

Only Captain America would be asked for an autograph at the funeral for the former President of the United States of America.

The service is lengthy. Bucky finds himself nodding off only to awaken suddenly when Steve gets him in the ribs with his somehow-muscular elbow. The new President gives the eulogy. Bucky turned it down, hoping people will think it was because he is too emotional to speak in front of the sea of fellow grievers.

 _He will be sorely missed_ , the new President says, ending his speech. The crowd goes wild. They clap. The cameras recording the service all pan to the pews. Bucky does his best to pretend to look sorrowful.

Outside, where everyone has gathered around the rectangular hole ready to send his father six feet under, Bucky waits patiently for the casket to arrive. It doesn't. Ten minutes have passed. The rain on Bucky's umbrella sounds like rattling cymbals. Like bombs going off, one after the other, one after the other. He can't think straight. He has to get out of there.

Steve's hand is around his arm before he can escape. "Where are you going? They're bringing him out soon enough."

"No," he says. "Not soon enough."

Steve is nice. He and Steve have a date next Friday for drinks at this bar Steve likes to go to where nobody knows his name. But Steve is in the way. Wrenching his arm free, he gives the Avenger a look he knows will sedate the Star Spangled Man. It's a look of pleading. A look that makes Bucky feel sick. But it gets him out of there.

Rain like bullets zaps the umbrella. Bucky increases his speed. He passes tombstones and bouquets of flowers and years far too close together, and then he sees her.

At first, he doesn't think it's actually her. Maybe he's been asleep this whole time and she has come to die. Maybe he's so tired he has started seeing things. But she lifts her head as he approaches where she stands on the gravel pathway leading away from the graveyard and her eyes are like the blue sky at twilight and he knows she is real.

He stops.

"Darcy," he says, frowning. She doesn't have an umbrella, so Bucky takes the final steps towards her rain-soaked body and covers her head. He looks at her and notices she is wearing black. "What are you doing here?"

She looks up at him. Her face is pale, though the rain has washed the blood and ash from her skin. She has the same dark circles under her eyes as him. Her full lips are cracked and lathered in lip balm. "I'm a survivor," she says. "I was invited."

He gets what she means; if you were at the White House when the bombs went off and you made it out alive, you were given an invitation to the dead President's funeral. He wasn't told who they were, but he was told only three survivors RSVP'd. Only one of those three showed up.

Two, if he counts Darcy. Which he doesn't. They aren't _survivors_ , he and Darcy. He can't speak for the others, but he and Darcy are different. He and Darcy are their own brand of superhero. They walked into fire and came out scathed, burned, broken, but they emerged as a team. A fractured team, yes, but now she is with him again, and for some reason he can't explain, he feels slightly more whole, slightly less alone now she has returned.

He doesn't want her to go.

"Why didn't you come in?" he asks. "How long have you been waiting here?" Her black dress is stuck to her skin so well he can see the goosebumps lifting the fabric along her arms. Why would she stand here with no umbrella?

With one hand, Bucky unbuttons his suit jacket and artfully strips himself clean of it. Draping it over Darcy before she can protest, he waits for her to answer.

"I came," she says, reaching into her black bag and pulling something small out, "to give you this."

Bucky's heart lurches. She holds a rectangular box in her palm. The King's Cards.

She has come out in the rain to his dead father's funeral to give him the deck of cards his dead mother gave to him when he was a child.

He really doesn't want her to go.

"Thank you," he says, baffled. He reaches for the packet, his fingers scratching the inside of Darcy's hand as he takes it from her. He looks in her eyes. "Really," he says, "thank you."

"I know they're special," she says. "I knew I had to get them back to you."

She knew.

How could she know?

In the rain, standing so close to her, his heart bleeding inside his chest, Bucky feels exposed. But he stays where he is, with the rain sounding more and more like twittering birds.

"Have you eaten?" he asks.

Confusion sweeps over her water droplet-covered face, but it slips off after a second's thought. "No," she says, and Bucky breathes a breath of relief he did know he had been holding.

"I know this sandwich place," he tells her.

"Good," she says. "I'm starving."

And he is smiling again. Just like that. Twice in one day. Tucking the deck of cards thoughtfully in his front pocket, Bucky and Darcy make their way to the parking lot, her shoulder brushing his as she attempts to remain beneath the protective umbrella. Bucky slips to the left a little, exposing himself to the rain. Not to get away from her—never, he realises, to get away from her—but to offer her frozen body extra refuge from the elements that threaten to derail their journey.

They reach the parking lot. Bucky scans the license plates and finds the one that took him and Steve Rogers to this place. He beckons Darcy, holding a finger to his mouth.

"Why can't we speak," she asks quietly.

And then he spots them. There aren't as many anymore, the flashes are several seconds apart, but there are enough to make Bucky wish he could turn himself into someone else. He points to the high wall. Another flash.

The journalist nods in sympathetic understanding. She knows because she is one of them, even if she has stripped herself of the title today.

Bucky crunches soft, wet gravel as he walks towards the driver's side door, leaving Darcy holding the umbrella a few feet away. He peers through the window. Unlocked. Old Sport must have known. Everybody seems to _know_ his movements before he does. Opening the door to a dinging noise, he climbs inside and soundlessly motions for Darcy. She walks briskly to the car, collapses the umbrella, shakes it out, and gets inside the vehicle.

"Nice car," she says.

"Thanks. We're stealing it." As he says this, the engine roars to life with the press of a button.

Darcy's hand closes around his wrist as he reaches for the gearstick. "We're what?" She sounds almost hysterical. Like she can't decide if she should laugh or shout at him for being so reckless in the wake of such a horrific tragedy.

And yes, he knows how it sounded. It sounded like he was Bucky Barnes, the guy photographed naked on a boat in Europe. The guy caught drunkenly pissing on the flowers at the White House Easter Egg Roll. The guy who approached her at his dead father's birthday party. But that man, that child, is lost to him. He no longer exists outside of his blurred memories. He died, like his father and so many others, the night crazed gunmen set off explosives and shot people in the skull.

But he has been cooped up in bed for two weeks. He has been staring at the chandelier above his too-big bed, fearing every time he blinks it will come crashing down on top of him. He needs a bit of fun before he goes out of his mind, and why not have it with the woman who came all the way to his dead father's funeral just to hand him back a pack of cards?

"It's okay," he assures her. "He knows we're taking it."

"Who knows?" She doesn't yet sound convinced.

"The guy we're taking it from. You met him. My babysitter the night of the. . ." he trails off. Darcy releases his wrist. His hand flops on to the gearstick. The sting in his hand wakes him up and he shakes off the feeling of boiling air blowing over his face. He shifts into reverse. "Ready to go?"

Darcy eyes him, unsure, but there is a glimmer of excitement in her stare. She nods her head and they are off, blocking the flashes from the cameramen and camerawomen, and Bucky can't ignore how nice it is to be running from journalists and not terrorists with Darcy Lewis by his side.

* * *

It's a hole-in-the-wall, really. Darcy almost walks past it. Would have if Bucky hadn't reached for her elbow and pulled her inside. The bell above the door rings out and the old guy at the counter is about to say _Sorry, we're closed. Come back at 11_ , but then he sees it's Bucky and he smiles this great smile. And Bucky, really and truly unable to stop himself, smiles for the third time that day.

"Bucky!" Alfredo cries, his Italian accent distorting his name in a way that sends Bucky back several years. He comes out from behind the counter, approaching Bucky and taking his face in his thick hands. "I haven't seen you in so long. How are you?"

"Doing alright, Fred," he says, he lies. "How would you feel about making my guest and me a Classic?"

It is at this point Alfredo spots Darcy's half-dried figure beside Bucky. He releases Bucky's face and raises his eyebrows. "And who is this? A girlfriend?" he says hopefully, offering Darcy a hand. She takes it firmly, shaking her head.

"Just a friend," she says, and Bucky is surprised to hear that word come out of her in regards to their relationship.

Bunker Buddies, he thinks. It fits better.

Alfredo, smiling as wide as ever, lets go of Darcy's small hand and shows them to the table by the window. Bucky's eyes follow the stream of photographs depicting famous Italian places, people, novels, and films that line the brick-coloured walls.

"This is Darcy, Fred," Bucky introduces. He sits down opposite her on the vinyl-covered seat, placing his hot wrists on the cool, metal tabletop.

"Darcy, Darcy," Alfredo says, nodding his head. Smiling. Grinning like a mad clown. "Two Classics, you say?"

"Just one," Bucky says, the simple idea of eating an entire sub by himself roiling the acids in his stomach. "We'll split it."

Alfredo looks disappointed, but he disappears into the kitchen without making a fuss. When the door stops swinging, Bucky chances a look at Darcy. She is staring at him. Wide-eyed. Eyebrows up.

"What?"

Her face smoothes out, and it is at this point Bucky realises how gaunt she looks. Her cheeks are hollowed. Her fingers as they rest on the forgotten menu are like spindles.

Stress. Anxiety. _Nightmares_.

If he didn't battle those afflictions with exercise, he imagines he would look similar.

"You just didn't strike me as the type of guy to hang out in an independently owned Italian sandwich shop," she says.

The type of guy the world sees him as isn't the type of guy to hang out in an independently owned sandwich shop. That guy is the type of guy to hang out in clubs with models and actresses. The type of guy to wind up naked on the front cover of a tabloid magazine.

Bucky Barnes has a secret: he isn't that type of guy. Not really. Not when you strip away all of his carefully, perfectly built layers. When all of that grime is gone, he is a small boy visiting Washington DC with his mother, happily following her into a hole-in-the-wall to visit an old friend.

It's just so much easier to pretend, he finds. So, he pretends. It's easier that way. Surprisingly, there are less questions. People just accept that he is an uncaring, conceited asshole incapable of change.

It helps that it pissed his father off so much when he was alive.

"Did your mom take you here?" Darcy asks.

She knows.

She is a witch. Or, a superhero. A true one, like the Avengers, and her superpower is mind-reading. It would be a handy power for a journalist.

Bucky nods. "Yeah," he says, clearing his throat when the word comes out coated with phlegm. "Yeah. She knew Fred from way back."

"That's nice," she says, and Bucky believes her. "Look," she says, and Bucky looks. She is desperate to tell him something. "I wanted to thank you."

"Thank me?" he says, though he knows what she will say.

He doesn't want her to say it. Knows that if she does say it, he will be transported back to the moment the first bomb was tripped, when Darcy Lewis landed on top of him, when their lives were unceremoniously bound by an unthinkable act.

Bucky braces himself for her response.

She braces herself as well. She closes her eyes for a moment (does she see what he sees when she closes them?) and takes in a breath that is much calmer and smoother than the ones she took down in the bunker. Her ribs must have healed. When her blue eyes open, there is a sheen over them. "I wanted to thank you for saving my life. You didn't have to. You could have left me—"

"—I couldn't have left you," he says, cutting her off. "I wouldn't have."

"Yeah," Darcy says, "I'm starting to realise you wouldn't have."

Alfredo comes out with their food, saving them from anymore talk of the bunker. Several minutes pass by in relative silence. They eat, sharing looks of satisfaction, and listen to the rain that has started to pick up again.

He really was hungry. Despite his stomach making warning sounds, he finishes his half of the sub in under five minutes. Darcy is a quarter of the way through hers when he puts down his napkin.

There is so much he wants to say to this woman. Questions he thinks up when he lies in that too-big bed at night. Many of them are dark. Heavy questions that will throw a blanket over their heads and make it difficult for them to breathe. He wants to say that he has been thinking about her. That she drifts into his dreams and forces him to watch her die. He wants to say how happy he is to see her alive, even if she looks like a ghost.

But this is Alfredo's. He cannot taint this place with such talk. Besides, hopefully this is not the last time he and Darcy Lewis will be face to face. There is time, hopefully, for the big stuff. He will settle for small talk today, the day of his dead father's funeral.

"So, uh," he says as Darcy consumes another small bite, "guess who is grabbing drinks with Captain America on Friday?"

Darcy's eyebrows go up. "Really?" she says. She takes a sip of water and swallows her food. "You got me a date with Captain America? That's so sweet of you."

"Ha. Ha."

"Oh, you mean _you_ have a date with Captain America," she says. "I didn't know you swung that way, but all the power to you. That man is a God. You're one lucky asshole."

"I don't swing that way. Although," he says, pondering, ignoring her double entendre, "he is, as you say, a God. Michelangelo himself sculpted him from marble and then Zeus breathed life into his lungs."

"Are you sure you don't swing that way?"

Yes. He is sure. Because as he laughs with Darcy Lewis about silly, nonsensical things like Captain America's biceps, he watches her body, her sparkling eyes, and senses his heart expanding, almost as if it is making room. Preparing itself. Each time she hides her mouth to stop herself from spitting out her water, there goes another centimetre.

And then, at the end, when she says his name, when she says, "Bucky, thank you so much for taking me here," it's like his heart is so big it could swallow her whole.

"You're welcome," he says, his palms growing warm.

"We should do it again sometime," she says.

"Yes," he says, fast, standing, "we should. Do you need me to drop you somewhere?"

She shakes her head, getting up. Taking off his jacket, she hands it to him. "I can walk from here. The rain's stopped."

"Okay. Well, goodbye, Darcy," he says, clutching his jacket to his chest.

Her hand goes up in a wave. She shouts goodbye to Alfredo, who comes out of the kitchen in a flash to see her off like she is his own child departing the family home to make a life for herself. The bell sings, the door shuts, and Darcy Lewis is gone.

Bucky stands there, staring after her, until Alfredo asks him to sit again. Then it is their turn to chat. The conversation ends when the clock strikes eleven, and Bucky leaves out the back thinking of his mother and what Alfredo said to him just after Darcy left. _Your mother, my boy. She would have liked her_ , he had said.


	4. Part Four

**Part Four | Sleep, Pretty Darling**

* * *

Nobody here knows his name. Once, Before, he would have loathed a place filled with such ignorant people. He would have either left, or he would have stood to his full height, glass sloshing in his hand, and announced to the patrons his true identity. And they would have clapped, asked him to buy rounds for the whole bar. Slapped his shoulder, asked how it feels to be the son of the most powerful prick in the country. And he would have told them. He would have said _oh, it's not so bad_. He would have said _it helps get me laid, so it's not so bad. Not really_.

But this is After. Nobody here knows his name and it is heaven on earth. He can breathe. He can sip his drink in silence and be left alone. That other person, the one from Before, is a stranger to him now.

The bar is full of old geezers out for a night on the town. Their white heads take up most of the seats. Their wrinkled hands have ownership over the pool cues. He recognises each one of them as regulars though he has only come to the bar twice before. It's the way they walk across the glossy-wood floors—like they live in this cramped, beer-scented room. But it is more than that. The whole place breathes with the drunkards. Bucky feels as though he has entered into a familiar film whenever he is here as he watches the men play round after round of pool, the pitchers of beer on the table never drying up even as the crowd constantly fill their pint glasses.

All of the men are vets. Survivors of the Vietnam War. The war is long over, their comrades are long dead, but they still are compelled to wear a uniform. It is not their military getup—those things don't fit over their beer guts anymore, and Bucky can imagine how they would be transported, stolen away, to the raging battlefields if they were able to squeeze themselves inside. They all wear white t-shirts and khaki trousers. The white t-shirts are all tucked in. Dangling beneath the collars are their dog tags. All of them have retained the two they were thrust upon enlistment—willing or otherwise. One for their families, one for their would-be dead bodies.

Lucky bastards. And they all know it. It's why they drink so much.

They come here to forget the war. After all this time, it still plagues them. Even he can spot it in their crinkly eyes. It leaves a blankness in their stare.

Steve told him that one night someone dropped their glass. He had been drunk long before he entered the bar—they all stink of alcohol the second their hunched bodies burst through the doors. Some drinking song came on the jukebox and he climbed on top of a table. Dancing away, his sweaty, fat fingers lost their grip on his beer glass. The thing shattered. Sent slivers of the sharp stuff in all directions. Steve closed his eyes. The noise was loud. It cut through the music and startled him. Sent him back to HYDRAs warehouse. When he opened his eyes two seconds later, every man inside the bar had fallen to the floor and covered their heads.

 _Bomb_! someone had yelled. _Duck_!

The man whose glass it was that had splintered on the floor was covered in blood when the memories of the sticky Vietnam forest faded. He had dived off of the table and into a sea of broken glass. Steve helped pluck the fragments from the man's body. He told Bucky there had been the worst sort of vacant look in the man's glassy stare.

He never returned to the bar after the incident. Offed himself that night leaving behind a wife and two children and a dog and a white picket fence. Everyone at the bar went to his funeral, even Steve. But no one cried. Not his family, not the gang of veterans. It was just one of those things—no one is surprised when it happens. No one has tears to waste on these lost causes. Besides, they all died years ago in the swamps of Vietnam.

His tag, the one that snapped off, the one to be left with his body so it could be identified and the superior officers could inform the United States that they lost another one, hangs on the wall by the pool table. It is in good company.

Bucky knows why Steve likes this place so much. There is a brotherhood here who don't give a shit that he could be that guy they see in the news who still wears the stars and stripes their fathers told them about when they were kids. And they don't hate him. That isn't why none of them check. It's because they are all soldiers. All survivors. To them it doesn't matter that Captain America—the famous, century-old crime fighter—might attend their special bar. He is just another veteran haunted by the same things they are. The superhero blends into the crowd.

And none of them care that Bucky isn't a proper soldier. They don't care, either, that he might be that guy— _is he the dead president's son_?—they had seen naked on the front cover of tabloid magazines. To them, Lyndon B Johnson is still president.

Anyway, he is a survivor in his own right. No. He is a superhero in his own right. They all are, though he fought on a different battlefield to them. He knows if he had been there when the glass broke he would have fallen flat on his stomach alongside them. He would have lifted his head moments later, blinking away the masked faces of terrorists and breathing out the scent of smoke and fear mixed with Darcy Lewis's perfume.

"Can I top you off, young man?" The bartender, whose grey shock of hair is longer than Bucky's had been during college, stands with a pitcher of water. It is already poised over Bucky's drained glass, dripping condensation over the back of his hand.

He lifts the cup. "Please," he requests, and the bartender tips the pitcher.

"You waiting for that friend of yours?" the man asks. He finishes filling Bucky's glass. His head turns to the door and Bucky spots a long scar running across his cheek.

They do pay attention here, then. They just don't care enough to point things out.

"I am."

As he says this, the door swings open. Warm air of early summertime rushes into the air-conditioned space. Steve makes his way apologetically through the crowd. There is a red scratch running down his neck from the Avengers' latest mission in Mexico. Some uprising or another of an evil genius and his not-so-evil henchmen. He smiles at Bucky and takes the seat to his left.

He orders a beer, receiving his drink seconds after the words leave his mouth, like there was one already waiting for him. Maybe they don't know his name, but he is a part of this bar's genetic makeup now. He aids in its breathing. The organism can read his thoughts, predict his movements and requests.

Their conversation starts off slow. It begins, as it always does, with a catch-up. Bucky wonders aloud how Steve got the red line on his neck. Steve asks how Bucky has been sleeping, pointing out the circles beneath his eyes that only seem to be getting worse. Bucky lies and says it is getting better, easier. Then it transitions, as it always does, into Bucky asking more questions about his grandfather. Questions Steve is more than happy to answer. Soon he will run out of things to ask, and perhaps even sooner Steve will run out of answers. But they are on an even playing field at the moment and Bucky takes full advantage.

Steve is in the middle of telling Bucky about his time in basic training prior to being pumped full of the super soldier serum—they went off on a rabbit trail, a common occurrence during their nights out—when the bar top vibrates.

"Sorry," Bucky says, reaching for his phone. He usually turns it off while he is here. Picking it up, he pauses his finger on the lock button.

"Who is it?" Steve asks, ever-curious.

Bucky's tongue feels heavy as he builds up the courage to respond. He is a schoolboy again. His voice has been stolen by a girl on the playground. "Darcy," he croaks, though he does not take the time to clear his throat in a manly way and repeat himself.

He sees Steve lean against the bar suggestively, a glittering smile on his face. Ignoring the iceman, Bucky turns back to his screen and unlocks the message.

 _I think I may have blacked out earlier and killed this guy I was interviewing for the magazine_ , she writes.

His phone buzzes a second time.

 _I mean, I have no evidence. But he was a horrible human being and now he's not picking up his phone for follow-ups_ , she continues.

A third message. His whole body shakes with his mobile.

 _You're probably thinking, Darcy, is there any blood? Do you remember saying goodbye to him during your face-to-face. And to those questions I say no and yes, respectively. But. . .what if I'm one of those murderers who can replace their memories because their brain is so shocked they had the balls to murder someone. What then?_

He shouldn't do it. He should close his phone and write back when he does not have Captain America peering over his shoulder like they really are schoolchildren. But her messages are far too heavy. They sink too far deep into him and force him to crack a smile so wide and revealing his cheeks cramp up.

His fingers tap against the screen.

 _I think the first question I would ask if I were the police is, who was this guy to you?_ he asks. He pushes Steve away with his shoulder, staring at his screen. It lights up.

 _An asshole_ , comes her immediate reply.

 _Can I ask for a more specific answer? If you_ did _kill him, it wouldn't be good for your defence if you call him an asshole_.

 _Fine, he was one of those incel bastards. We're doing an in depth study of them for the magazine. This guy runs the local chapter._

"What's an _incel_?"

Steve's voice is right above his left ear. Bucky stabs him with his elbow. "Stop snooping," he reprimands, typing a quick reply. He looks up from his phone. "You don't wanna know what an incel is."

"Well, now you have to tell me."

"You really won't like it," Bucky warns.

Raising his eyebrows daringly, Steve says, "Buck, I fought against Nazis. Tell me, what could possibly be worse than them?"

He has a point. "You have a point," Bucky tells him. "Okay, an incel, which stands for _involuntary celibate_ , is a man—though they're really immature little boys—who are unable to find a woman to have sex with. But instead of being good boys about it and going out to find a willing partner, they think women owe them sexual intercourse. In a nutshell, they're misogynistic, racist white boys who advocate rape and violence against the women who refuse to have sex with them."

Steve is silent for a long stretch. "I can see why Darcy might think she murdered her subject," he says eventually. "Nazis are still worse, but. . .these guys sound horrible."

"They are horrible," Bucky agrees. Another buzz.

 _Should I go back to the place we met up? It was outside a Starbucks. You know, for safety reasons. Do you think murderous Darcy would have left him there?_

 _Has it occurred to you that this guy might not be returning your phone calls because it's almost eleven o'clock at night, and not because you viciously murdered him?_

 _That does sound slightly more reasonable than my theory_ , she allows.

 _Slightly?_

 _Fine. A lot more reasonable._

 _Okay. Now that's settled, I need to get back to Steve._

 _Tell your boyfriend I said hi._

Bucky coughs up a laugh, patting his past self on his back for finding Darcy's cell phone number after their lunch at Alfredo's. He switches off his phone and pockets it, returning his focus to Steve. "Darcy says hi."

"Oh, that's very kind of her," Steve says. Downing his drink, he adds, "I actually have a question about Darcy."

Unbidden trepidation sinks inside of Bucky. "What kind of question?"

"Well," says Steve. Already, another beer has appeared in his hand. "Why haven't you asked her out yet? On a proper date? The Bucky Barnes I've been reading about since I woke up in 2011 would have already hung her out to dry."

The words Steve uses are harsh, but they roll off Bucky as though his skin his covered with oil and Steve's statement is water. That Bucky, the one who existed the first moment his eyes saw Darcy Lewis sitting in a black dress, would have, as Steve said, found her and ruined her by now. He would have used her for a night, no care in the world how she would take to being abandoned by morning. But that Bucky, like the other people in this bar, is dead. A ghost haunting his memories.

Bucky is being careful with Darcy Lewis. He is treading slowly and delicately, aware that if his footfalls are too harsh, he could shatter them both.

If only his father were alive to see what he has become. He can hear the prick now. _You're still a fool, James. A fucking, worthless fool. No woman could ever change that._

"You should," Steve says quietly. Bucky can barely hear him above the rattling noises of the pool game going on beside them. "Before it's too late. I know how painful regret can be."

"Who says," Bucky implores, "I want to ask her out?"

Steve laughs at him. Loudly. His golden face bends and contorts as he struggles to regain his composure. He stares at Bucky like the younger man has gone mad. "Who says?" he practically splutters. "God, Buck, the way you look at your phone says it all. And it's really not surprising. You two went through something horrific together. It makes sense you guys have formed this bond."

But it's so much more than that. It isn't just that they survived the attack on the White House in each other's arms. He cannot— _has not been able to—_ put it into words, but it is more than that. The incident may have connected them, but it isn't what keeps them tethered. That has more to do with a pack of playing cards and an Italian sandwich shop and late night phone calls that help him fall asleep.

Bucky brushes Steve's suggestion off and they move the subject far away from Darcy Lewis. Another half-hour passes before Steve announces he has to leave. He has a meeting in New York tomorrow afternoon for which he can't be late and the two men separate like old friends outside of the bar's front entrance.

A cool breeze follows Bucky home. _Home_. He never thought he would ever call Washington DC home. After his dead father's birthday celebration he was meant to go back out into the world. Explore some more Scandinavian towns with girls whose legs are longer than telephone poles and whose hair is brighter and lighter than the sun. He was meant to be drinking his troubles away. Fucking his troubles away.

But then his dead father died and he couldn't leave. Bucky had spent so long away from this town because of him. Now that he is gone, buried six feet under, there is nothing keeping him from staying. He rents a one bedroom in the middle of the city and lives the life of the mundane. He has job interviews keeping him busy. Evenings at the bar with Steve keeping him busy. Lunches out with Darcy keeping him busy. But nothing extravagant. Nothing from his old life.

See, there are two versions of himself. There is the one from Before. The one who drank to excess and fucked to excess. The one with no real cares or responsibilities or troubles.

That one is well and truly gone. His light was snuffed during those hours he spent in the bunker playing cards until he couldn't see straight with Darcy Lewis.

Then there is the one After. The one who befriended Nicest Guy on Earth Steve Rogers. The one whose stomach tightens whenever he sees a text message from Darcy. The one who rose from the ashes of the White House.

He forgets how to be the one from Before. That skin of his melted in the heat of the explosions. Bucky is happy he is gone. There is no more need for secrecy and pretending. He can be that guy who spends his time in an independently owned Italian sandwich shop with a pretty, intelligent girl named Darcy Lewis.

He can be that guy his dead mother loved.

Inside his apartment, Bucky strips off his clothes and collapses in his bed. Exhaustion soon takes over. Sleep comes not long after.

 **. . .**

 _There is something metallic burning in his mouth. He spits a pool of it out, but the mass of blood and saliva doesn't make it far. Hot red liquid spills on to his chin. Dribbles down his neck. Bucky opens his eyes, aware there is someone watching him. His vision is slightly impaired—his right eye throbs and swells—but he is able to see the dark-haired woman standing in front of him, a gun pressed to her skull._

 _Nothing covers her mouth, but she isn't crying out. No, Darcy Lewis is too frightened to make any noise above a whimper. Covering her body in scraps is the dress she wore to his dead father's party. She has no shoes. No straps to keep the dress up. Her skin is tattered and torn._

 _Trying to move is futile. He is tied to a chair, his hands and legs bound by thick rope._

 _"I told her if she makes a sound, I'll shoot."_

 _Bucky flinches as the invasive voice bashes against his sensitive eardrums and moves his bleary focus from Darcy's quaking figure to the masked man standing behind her. He clutches her to his lean figure, his free hand gripping the exposed flesh beneath her chest. His sharp talons spear her skin and send spirals of blood down that disappear into the fabric of her dress. Each time he readjusts his hold, Darcy's whimpers begin anew._

 _Shifting his eyes discreetly to Darcy, he tries to tell her without sound that he will save her. Save them both. He pleads with her to believe him. To trust him._

 _"You deserve this, you know," the monster sneers, digging the pistol further into Darcy's head. His hard voice is pure evil. "You know it's true. She's too good for you. This_ world _is too good for you, James. Wouldn't you agree?"_

 _Bucky says nothing. His mouth has again filled with blood. He doesn't know its source. Splitting his jaw, he allows it to fall down his chin. Spitting would take energy he does not possess._

 _"The silent game?" Their captor laughs. Cackles. He sounds like some cartoonish villain. "I don't like that. And neither does she. You see, neither of you are going to get out of here alive. But the longer you stay quiet, the more she suffers," he sneers, scraping his hand across her ribcage. Darcy has to hold her breath to keep from crying out._

 _"What do you want?" Bucky husks, his throat halfway blocked._

 _The masked gunman places his chin on Darcy's shoulder. He breathes heavily into her ear. "I want you to admit that you deserve this. I want you to realise this is all punishment for the years of hell you have inflicted on the world."_

 _"Why?" he asks._

 _"Why?_ Why _? I want you to be held accountable. You've gone your whole life pretending we all revolve around you, our glorious sun. You think you're entitled to every woman you see," he says, squeezing Darcy. "But you are nothing more than a carbon copy of your sick, twisted father. And now is your time to pay."_

 _"I won't say it," Bucky says, shaking in his restraints. "It isn't true."_

 _"Come on, James. You're smart enough to know that it is."_

 _But it can't be. He has worked too hard for too long._

 _"Say it," the masked man hisses._

 _"No."_

 _"Say it!" It comes out as a shriek. He drops Darcy, leaving her sprawled on the floor, and runs at Bucky. His greasy fingers slip through his hair and tug his head back. The gun is in Bucky's mouth. Steel burns his cheeks. "Say it!"_

 _"No!"_

 _It isn't Bucky. He can't talk with a gun in his mouth._

 _Darcy Lewis crawls towards them, bloodied and battered._

 _The gun slips from between Bucky's teeth. His jaw aches, but he pushes aside his own pain. Darcy has just spoken. Rattling against the ropes fusing his wrists, Bucky tries to break free. He has to get out before it happens. He has to save her this time._

 _"Oh, Darcy," the man says, clicking his tongue in disapproval. "Such a shame."_

 _The gun blares. Bucky watches in horror as a bullet flies towards Darcy's forehead. It slips inside of her, knocking her backwards. Blood and brains fly out in all directions. Her blue eyes stare at the ceiling, lifeless and wide._

Bucky's eyes burst open to an almost completely dark room. Damp with sweat, he sits up, a scream balancing precariously on the tip of his tongue. He can still hear the echo of the gunshot ricocheting in his head. He can still see Darcy Lewis's blood and brain matter splattered on the wall in front of him.

The nightmares are getting worse. It has been six weeks since the attack and they are _festering_. They should be fading. Leaving him in peace. But no, they enjoy torturing him too much. Bucky can't blame them for having their fun. There are such odd fears plaguing his mind, and what choice do his dreams have but to make use of them.

He thought, by now, foolishly, things would be easier. Never having survived a terrorist attack before, domestic or otherwise, he had been unaware of the healing process. He figured— _hoped—_ that after enough days flickered by with no more gunshots or bombs he would be free to close his eyes and not forcibly relive the events from that night second by second. His hopefulness was pointless, of course, as it always has been. He cannot escape the memories. They harass him endlessly. Waking or sleeping, he is unable to avoid the acrid scent of gunpowder.

But how many more times can he watch Darcy die in his place?

They have a lunch scheduled for Saturday, but he is still shaking badly several minutes after pulling himself free from his nightmare, and each time he blinks he plays her execution on repeat. He doesn't want to wait another two days. He can't.

Patience has never been easy to come by for Bucky, but it has gotten worse in the weeks since the attack.

Maybe it's time to take Steve's advice. To stop putting off what Steve calls the _inevitable_.

Climbing out of bed, wobbling when he gets to his feet, Bucky goes to his cramped bathroom, ignoring the boxes stacked in the central room, and turns on the taps in his cramped shower. He has money for a bigger place, but he is happy here. The furniture is plush. Safe for the hours he spends unable to move while anxiety attacks ravage his system. His neighbours work odd shifts at odd jobs around the city. Bumping into them is never much of an issue, and it will become even less likely when he is brave enough to stop relying on his trust fund and properly find a job himself.

The shower spray bites into Bucky's skin, soothing some of the tightness formed in the night. He washes his hair with a fancy shampoo given as a gift from one his dead father's old admirers sorry about his passing. Its sweetness helps him pretend. That's what it is all about now— _pretending_. He is able to put on a good show for himself and those around him all while his insides collapse and his brain fries itself.

In this shower, his hair smelling like spiced fruits, he is healed and better and happy. Internally, he is the frightened boy who had to fend off a crazed gunman on his way to a security bunker.

He shuts off the shower and dresses in silence. Reaching inside the cupboard hidden behind the steamed mirror, he pulls out that tub of product given to him by his old guards and works some of it through his hair.

Breakfast does not appeal to him this morning. He leaves his apartment with his stomach aching.

Darcy's office has a security guard. A big one. Because this is a feminist magazine and straight white men have tried to burn the building down before. His name is Patrick, and he could easily pick Bucky up and throw him halfway across town if he so desired. Patrick eyes Bucky suspiciously when he emerges from the staircase—he cannot do elevators, not anymore—and the smaller man must quickly explain why he is there without an appointment.

"I just need to ask Darcy something," he says. "It's important and she isn't picking up her phone."

Patrick squints at him. "And you walked all the way here to ask her in person?"

"Who says I walked all the way here?" He did walk all the way there, but if Patrick figures it out he will be less likely to invite Bucky inside.

"You're all sweaty."

"I walked up the stairs," he defends.

"We're on the third floor. I watched you run a marathon for cancer research last year," Patrick counters.

He hadn't banked on Patrick knowing he ran marathons for cancer research. Not many people did. This throws a wrench in his excuses. "Yeah, but that was last year." And the year before, and the year before, and the year before. . . "I'm all out of shape now. Please, just let me in. You've seen me pick up Darcy a few times. I'm not some random stalker."

Patrick's folded arms bulge as he contemplates Bucky's request. His veins pop. Eventually he says, "Fine. You can go in. I trust you know the way?"

Bucky does know the way. The first time he collected Darcy from work she insisted on giving him a tour. Everyone had left—she has been staying later and later since the attack—and they were accompanied only by the low hum of the emergency lights.

He throws a thank you at Patrick and enters the offices. Darcy's coworkers look up from their desks—there are no cubicles; cubicles disrupt camaraderie according to Darcy—in turn as he passes through the floor, ogling the man they know from magazine covers. Some gazes drift down to his seam of his trousers, others, the gazes filled with pity, keep their focus on his eyes.

He is halfway to Darcy's desk when the collar of his shirt starts tightening around his throat. The collar of his cotton t-shirt that sits a half-inch below his neck.

Too many people. Too many pairs of wandering, concerned, pity-filled eyes.

Everybody here knows his name. He hates it. Sweat drips from his pores and he is seconds away from turning around. He stops in his tracks, readying himself for departure, but a door opening to his right jams his body in place.

"Bucky!"

She is surprised to see him, which makes sense. He hadn't told her he was coming. But she is smiling, and that spread of her lips, painted a soft pink that matches the shade of her blouse, opens Bucky's throat and tugs the corners of his mouth.

"What are you doing here?" Darcy asks, coming completely out of the break room. Standing in front of him she radiates warmth and comfort, though the way her shirt is tucked into her trousers highlights how small her waist is compared to when they first met.

Bucky peers around the room, surprised to see all of those oglers have turned back to their work. "Dinner," he blurts without thinking.

"It's eight o'clock in the morning," Darcy says, eyebrow raised.

"Obviously," he says, having to stop himself from laughing like a lunatic, "I meant to include more words in that sentence."

"Oh? Such as. . .?"

" _Such as_. . .Darcy, would you like to have dinner with me tonight?" There. It is out. He did it. He asked her, and his ears buzz with rushing blood.

"Dinner, huh?" Darcy says. "I guess I can do that."

Bucky's shoulders collapse as tension he had not known he was feeling escapes his body. He didn't think she'd say yes, he realises.

"Okay. Okay, great. How about you let me know when you're almost done here and I'll come pick you up?"

"Okay," she says, and there is barb of happiness in every single breath of hers that invades him like the sweetest poison.

"Okay," Bucky agrees, pointing his thumb behind his shoulder. "I should go, but I'll see you tonight." Waiting for Darcy's response, he starts walking backwards.

"I'll see you tonight, Bucky."

And with that send off, Bucky turns and walks through the desks again, aware that all of Darcy's coworkers are once more staring after him. He shakes off the slight twinge of embarrassment that is entirely foreign to him—Bucky from Before never got nervous, he never doubted himself or his ability to pick up women, he never was shy—and allows himself to sink into happiness. A kind of happiness he isn't sure he has ever felt.

A happiness crowding him all because Darcy Lewis said yes.

 **. . .**

He is nearly at her office building later that evening when the doubts start filtering through his head. They hit him in various forms. Worries that he will never be able to break out of the bunker walls he still feels surrounding him. That he will continue suffering each time he closes his poor, dry eyes until he falls into that big sleep and joins his dead father in hell. That he will die in fear at far too young an age.

Worries that Darcy Lewis will turn her back on him and leave him to mend the broken pieces of his soul by himself. He has never been very good at puzzles.

Honestly, he isn't sure why Darcy still talks to him. Sure, they had a nice time at Alfredo's place after he ran out of his dead father's funeral. But what is she doing agreeing to dinner with him? Why does she text him and call him and ask if he's okay? In such a short amount of time she has gone from knowing him as the "Slutty Son" of one of the worst United States' presidents to meeting him for lunch and talking to him well after the sun goes down.

Surely there is a hitch. A scheme.

He spent nearly thirty minutes finding the perfect clothes to wear because of these worries—more time than he has ever spent on his outward appearance. His dead mother always told him to dress nice, because the clothes you wear represent how you want the world to look at you. What would she say about all the times he was naked in public?

What would she say about the clothes he is wearing now? His favourite t-shirt, given to him by his dead grandfather on their trip to Italy when Bucky was twenty-five and on a break from acting like an asshole. The shoes he wore to his dead grandfather's funeral. The trousers that have stood the test of time—they belonged to his namesake. His first purchase after the war ended.

What would his dead mother say about these choices?

Probably something sappy. He cares about what Darcy thinks of him, so he put on the clothes that make him feel most like the version of himself he likes best. The truest version of himself. The version of whom only a precious few have been offered a glimpse.

"Bucky."

Bucky stops and turns towards the voice, confused. His eyes land on Darcy Lewis standing outside her office building.

He almost walked straight past it.

"You lost?" she asks, approaching him, smiling. Her heels click on the pavement. In the setting sun, her dusty rose shirt blends well with the sky. He feels as though he is flying through pink clouds by the time she stands in front of him. "I could have sworn you were about to walk right by me."

Scratching his head, he pats some loose strands of hair into place and tries to shake free of the nerves swarming his belly. "I, uh, I think I almost did."

"Got a lot on your mind, soldier?" She calls him that a lot. _Soldier_. He doesn't mind it.

"I guess I do," he apologises.

Darcy nudges his shoulder with her own as she turns to stand beside him. "Well, come on. I'm starving. Maybe some food will help clear your head."

It won't, but the company might.

Bucky and Darcy walk side by side towards the Mediterranean food truck they both like. The conversation is light—she asks how the job search is going, he asks whether she found a dead incel in her apartment.

"He isn't dead," she says, though she sounds as though she wishes he were. "You were right—he had fallen asleep, the bastard."

"What about falling asleep makes him a bastard?"

"Guys like that don't deserve sleep."

When they have their food, the pair make their way to the lawn at the right of the Lincoln Memorial. Usually the space is overrun with ultimate frisbee jocks taking a break from their studies at GW, but tonight, with classes out for the summer and with no noisy tourists to deal with, he and Darcy are alone with the pink sun.

Sitting on the soft grass with only Darcy Lewis in sight, he can almost see the cold bunker walls around them. Can almost feel the dread trembling through him as he held her on that lumpy mattress, thinking they both were going to die. But the setting is all wrong. Even though they eat in relative silence, there are furtive glances and excited smiles. The sun beats down on them as it reaches the tops of the trees, setting their skin on fire. This is nothing like the bunker—he and Darcy have moved so far beyond that night, even if his nightmares have not.

"I feel like I'm fourteen again," Darcy says. She puts down her empty travel container and takes a sip of water.

Swallowing his last bite of food, Bucky, glad to be out of the quiet, asks, "How do you mean?"

She shifts her position so she is sitting closer, her legs out in front of her, one crossed over the other at the ankle. She kicked off her heels ages ago. "Fourteen," she says, her eyes on his. "My first date. It was with this kid, Josh. He was a singer in a rock band and he asked me out randomly one afternoon. We acted like we didn't know how to talk the entire date."

 _Date_.

He had been thinking it, but to hear her say it, even without really saying it, brings another smile to Bucky's face. He has not smiled so much since his dead mother died.

"Sorry about not saying much," he says.

Darcy presses their shoulders together. "Don't worry about it. I don't mind."

"That's a lie."

"What is that supposed to mean?" she demands, her face taking on a look of mock disbelief.

"You love to talk. I have not met anybody who talks as much as you, and my father was a politician. Those guys never shut up."

"Sorry. I do talk a lot."

"No, no, I like it," Bucky insists. "It makes up for my long stretches of brooding silence."

"I guess it does." Darcy is still looking at him, but he has had to look away. He watches a baby squirrel dance across the road. "Have you always been so quiet?"

That's good. Her question means she has forgotten about the old him. The him she ambushed at his dead father's birthday party.

"No," he laughs, pained. "I picked up a knack for talking out of my ass when I was sixteen."

Sometimes Bucky thinks Darcy Lewis has studied his family's history. Most would ask what caused the change when he was sixteen. Most would not let up until he responded. But she moves on, and when he glances at her there is a knowing twinkle in her blue eyes.

"How have you been sleeping?"

Dammit. Wrong direction.

"I only ask," she continues, "because I've watched those bags under your eyes get darker each time I see you."

She knows. She always knows.

He wishes he knew how.

Bucky sits up with his knees against his chest. He wraps his arms around his legs and laughs bitterly. "I've been sleeping," he says.

"That isn't what I asked."

"I know."

"It's bad, then?"

Bucky looks her in the eye. "Is it bad for you?"

Bravely, she says, "Yeah. It's really hard. I'm not sleeping, not eating enough, not picking up the phone when my mom calls to check on me. . . ." She breaks off, her stare becoming urgent. She crosses her legs and faces him directly. "It's okay that it's bad for you too."

"I'm fine," he lies, wishing the damned sun would set already so he could be free of its fiery heat.

"You're not. I know you're not, Bucky. You might smile and laugh and talk about stupid things when you're with me, but when you think I'm not looking you sort of. . .collapse."

He doesn't like this. His insides are shouting at him to run away. To tell Darcy that it was fun for a minute there, but he has to leave and never see her again.

But he can't move. There is a weight in his stomach anchoring him to the lawn. And there is a knot in his throat and a burning in his eyes that won't go away.

"I can't talk about it here," he says eventually, his voice struggling.

Darcy lets out a breath. "Where do you want to go?"

They find their way to his apartment. She makes no comment on his half-assed attempt to settle in. He isn't used to settling anywhere—this is all so new to him. He tells her to sit on the sofa in the living room while he grabs them each a glass of water. Through the long gap between the counters and cupboards, Bucky watches Darcy Lewis sit rigidly on the edge of the couch. Not out of fear of him, rather out of fear of this conversation.

He feels it too, the fear. It is strangling him.

He turns around and opens the fridge. Pulling out a jug of water, he slowly fills two cups. Anything to avoid returning to the living room.

But he has Darcy waiting for him and that is all the push he needs. He replaces the jug, stepping through the phantom doorway to join her on the sofa.

"Thank you," she says as she takes the cold glass from his hand.

Another silence echoes around them, filling the room with unanswered and unasked questions.

Darcy repeats her question from the field after she has downed her glass. "How are you sleeping, soldier?" She adds the nickname to ease some of the pressure.

"Badly." He is constantly surprised by how easy it is to be honest with Darcy Lewis. And he is also surprised by how, now that he has confessed, he does not want to stop. "I'm having nightmares. Each night, if I'm able to fall asleep, there's a nightmare just. . .just waiting for me."

"That. . .sucks," she says, shaking her head. "Sorry, I'm not good at making people feel better. It's one of my many faults."

Bucky twists so his upper half is towards Darcy. He takes her twitching hands in his. A bold move, but she doesn't snatch them away like he thought she would. "No, you always make me feel better."

"Always?" she says. "That can't be right."

He nods furiously, feeling the anxiety from the past six weeks bubbling up. He is about to explode. "It is. I've gotten so much better since I met you."

"You met me the night of the attack. The night we met was when everything went to shit."

"I don't count that as the night we met," he says, tightening his grip. "That guy at the party was a different person. That wasn't me. You and I met at the funeral in the rain, and that was when everything started to get better."

Darcy is holding him too. He can feel the stubs of her nails digging into the backs of his hands. "But you're still having nightmares."

"Aren't you?" he asks. In the yellow light from the lamp beside the sofa, he can see Darcy's lashes wet with gathering tears. His own eyes swell as he remembers how many times he has witnessed this exact face of hers in his dreams. She nods her head and a tear slides down her cheek, gathering at her mouth. "You know, you're in almost all of my nightmares. And when you're in them, you die. Every single fucking time, I have to watch you die. And it's horrible, but then I wake up and check my phone, and there, like _you knew_ , is a message from you about the article you're having to write or your neighbours who fight all the time. Things are only bad when I'm asleep. When I'm awake, it isn't so bad."

It isn't. It was, before the funeral, but things really _are_ easier now. With Steve and Darcy Lewis in his life, he only has to be afraid when he is alone.

And he knows that isn't good. He knows he will have to take Steve's advice and seek out a therapist or a psychologist or a psychiatrist or a _something_. Whoever it turns out to be will love picking at his fucked-up, my-mommy-died-when-i-was-sixteen, my-daddy-beat-me-before-he-was-executed-by-masked-gunmen, i-almost-died-in-a-terrorist-attack mind.

But at the moment, he has Darcy Lewis holding him. What more could he possibly need?

His fuse has run out. Bucky Barnes' face screws unpleasantly as his burning eyes release a flood of tears. There is thirty years of pain in his sobs, and Darcy—he can hear her crying too—lets go of his hands and presses his face against her pretty blouse.

His dead father would hit him when he cried, so he learned to not cry. At his dead mother's funeral he stared blankly at the casket as a machine lowered it below the grass. But his dead father is dead. He cannot stop Bucky anymore.

 _You're a fool, James_ , his dead father would say to him. _Only fools cry, James, and we Barnes boys are not fools_.

Lies. Every fucking word out of his dead father's filthy mouth.

Above the racket he is making, he hears Darcy's shaky voice. "It's okay," she says, stroking his hair. "It's okay. You're okay. Everything is going to be okay."

Eventually the noises stop. His throat opens—he can breathe again. And then Darcy takes his swollen face by his swollen cheeks and lifts his head so they are level with one another. Her blue eyes are shining and red.

"It's okay," she repeats, and he knows what she is saying— _she_ is okay. The Darcy from his dreams doesn't exist. The real Darcy is in front of him, leaning close, her wet eyelashes brushing his own.

The real Darcy is kissing him, and the kiss is wet because his tears and saliva are mixing with her tears and saliva. But it is beautiful. Her soft lips swallowing his make him close his eyes, and for the first time in nearly two months he sees only the backs of his eyelids.

How tranquil. How wonderful and perfect.

How freeing.

Bucky takes Darcy Lewis to bed that night.

"Are you sure," he asks.

"I'm sure," she says, stripping herself of her tear-stained shirt.

Maybe he is some sort of masochist. Maybe they both are, because by the time they are naked and lying together she is wet and he is hard.

She comes screaming his name, her nails digging into his back. He comes with her, pouring himself into the protective cover keeping him and Darcy separated.

They lie with no clothes on, their arms wrapped around each other. Though they are in the same position as they were in the bunker, he does not even think to compare the experience. Again, the people that are in his bed are so far removed from those people.

This bed is safe. Darcy is safe.

"Why did you come up to me?" she asks in the night. Her damp head is against his damp chest. She can most certainly hear his thrashing heart. "At your dad's party, I mean."

Running his fingers down the bumps of her spine, he contemplates his answer. "You were beautiful," he says, "and I could tell you wanted me to. Though, I didn't know at the time _why_."

Darcy laughs softly and the tremble of her throat tickles. "I know I wanted you to, but it had to be more than my looks."

"Hey, you're the one who used to call me the _Slutty Son_ ," he says. "But it was more than that."

"Then what was it?"

"You were wearing black," he says.

At his admission, Darcy lifts herself up and kisses him before settling back down. When the sun rises, they will have to return to real life, to the fears still clinging to them, but tonight they will stay in this bubble. Nothing can reach them here.

Bucky drifts to sleep steadily, his slumbering mind finally at peace.

 **. . .**

Darcy Lewis is not in bed when he comes awake, but he knows she is still in the apartment. Full of sleep, Bucky stretches and strains his ears, picking up on the noises coming from the kitchen. Somebody is singing off key. Somebody is tapping a wooden utensil against countertops. Somebody is cooking eggs and toast.

Climbing out of bed, Bucky puts on a pair of boxer shorts and stares at the pile of Darcy's clothing decorating his floor. He smiles, treading over her shirt and trousers. This sickening glee he feels can only be temporary, but he is going to enjoy every second of it until it decides to leave him.

"You're awake!" Darcy, wearing one of his t-shirts, chants from the stovetop. She moves a spatula over some eggs to scramble them. "How did you sleep?"

Bucky comes up to her, reaching above her petite frame for a glass. "Better than I have done in a while," he says, bravely kissing the top of her head. She doesn't smack him away. That can only be a good sign. "You?"

"Oh, I slept great. Some cathartic tears mixed with some great sex always make for a good night sleep," she says as she tips the pan of eggs over some toast.

"You do this a lot, then?" he jokes. He fills his glass with water, taking the plate Darcy offers him.

"Of course. You're just one guy of— _shit_!" Darcy curses the moment her elbow collides with the glass in Bucky's hand. The cup crashes to the floor. Shards of glass skid in every direction.

"It's fine," Bucky says. He puts his plate down and bends to collect some of the bigger pieces.

"Be careful," Darcy warns.

Bucky looks up at Darcy. "I'm always— _ouch_." A sharp point of glass slips against his palm. Blood rises and spills. Bucky stands up. "Well, whoops."

"Whoops indeed. Where's your first aid kit?"

"Um, I have some bandaids and gauze in my bathroom. I _think_ I have some tweezers as well, but we may have to improvise."

Darcy rolls her eyes and departs for the bathroom, muttering, "Men," under her breath.

Bucky stands in his kitchen, bloodied and well-rested, a piece of glass stuck inside his hand. And Darcy Lewis is there too, and this is so similar to the night of the attack.

But it is all so different.

"What supermodel did you steal these from?" Darcy asks upon her return, carrying a pink pair of tweezers with red lips decorating them and some gauze and sellotape. She immediately tugs the glass from his palm.

"I didn't steal them," he says, wincing. "Someone left them."

They are quiet as Darcy finishes patching him up. With the gauze in place, she brings his hand to her lips and kisses the tender skin. Bucky catches her eyes, in awe of how the two of them got to this place. How they managed to go from practical enemies to _here—_ standing in his kitchen, half-naked, and _happy_.

And he knows, he does, that he is not fixed yet. That he will probably never be truly fixed. But this— _Darcy—_ feels like a step in the right direction, and he cannot ask for anything more.

* * *

 **A/N:** Thank you for reading! Hopefully this ending is satisfactory enough.

I love this story, especially this Bucky, so really, thank you if you read and favourited, or if you simply read and enjoyed.

-Bethany


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